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Chapter Text

"I pray thee now, tell me for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?"

- Benedick, Much Ado About Nothing, Act 5, Scene 2

'Bastard' has been inscribed on Hero's skin since before she could read. Many such marks litter her body, but this is the deepest cut, a scar across her left breast.

"Who will want her with such a mark?" Her mother despairs, her distress instilling panic in the listening child.

Her father's answer is firm, "They will not see it until it is too late."

No one explains the word to Hero, but she gathers it is something wicked.

Her mother squeezes her wrist tight enough to hurt, reminding Hero in strict tones that the word must be covered and is never to be repeated. Her father jokes about it, calls her his changeling, his voice light and his eyes sharp (Hero giggles, but notices how her mother's mouth pinches). Ursula, her serving woman, fusses with her collar, ensuring the word remains hidden.

Alone, Hero pulls down the cotton, tracing the jagged letters as if she might soothe their edges.

'Bastard', she comes to understand, means someone unwanted.

She presses a hand over the mark, her heart pumping below, "I want you."

:-x-:

It is said when an insult cuts a person deep, it appears on their soulmate's skin. These are called soulmarks.

Soulmarks are a private matter. Often the words that leave a mark are unfit for polite conversation and covering marks, by cloth or powder, is encouraged. This makes it difficult to find your soulmate.

Soulmates tend to be viewed in a romantic light — what the ballads call true love. To share this bond with someone — to know the intimacies of another's soul, their greatest flaws and deepest vulnerabilities — is considered sacred and revered by poets and philosophers alike. Despite this, most wedded couples are not soulmates.

Maybe because when the stars decided to tie two souls together, they did not consider factors like wealth or station or distance in-between. Maybe because having another know your worst self is too terrifying for most.

What's more, a soulmark does not guarantee happiness. Bonds can be rejected and even unrequited, with one person carrying another's words without receipt. Even those soulmates who manage to find each other may prove unsuited over time.

But Hero is a dreamer. She knows whoever her soulmate is, she will love them. In one form or another.

Her skin is scattered with marks, like constellations across the night sky. She knows them all.

whelp

filth

vermin

mutt

scum

motherless

She soothes her finger across this last one, her own mother recently passed, the soulmarks wilting from her father's skin.

"We are the same."

:-x-:

When your soulmate dies, all their words disappear.

It is likewise rumoured that a mark fades when it loses its sting. Hero's marks never fade but darken into scars. The phrasing changes but the words remain the same.

mumbling

worthless

misbegotten

whoreson

piece of shit

son of a bitch

Ursula would be shocked if she knew of her ward's growing vocabulary, but Hero does not share her words with anyone. Not even Beatrice, her cousin and confidant.

These are her soulmate's marks, his secrets to shield. She will not reveal him to anyone.

:-x-:

feral

lowbred

stupid

illegitimate

freak

:-x-:

"I need you to insult me."

Beatrice stares, appalled. "Hero — no, I could not."

"Please, Beatrice. You are so shrewd in your assessments. I know I annoy you sometimes. You must be able to think of something that will cut."

Beatrice looks stricken, but then her gaze narrows, that clever mind working. "You want your soulmate to see it."

Hero presses her hand to her side where a new mark has appeared.

'...soulless…'

She has heard it said that bastards do not have souls. Hero thinks the mark over her heart is proof enough against this and dismisses the rest of that discourse. It is so cruel — and for something a child has no control over…

She knows her star-bound has a soul, but does he? She is certain someone must have said something to her that left a mark. But she has lived a blithe existence and never received close to the abuse he does.

"I do not want him to think he is alone."

Beatrice softens. She does not care for soulmates and is content to ignore the marks on her skin (Hero has glimpsed a few — unremarkable, loudmouth), but she knows what it means to Hero.

She sighs. "You have a good heart."

"Thank you, but— "

"But you have no spine," comes the sharp rebuke. "You bow to your father's will, no more than his dancing doll. Where there should be spirit, there is string. You mistake obedience for character and thus will never be the author of your own fate."

Hero swallows, feeling like a stone sinking through cold water, Beatrice's words crackling in her ears.

Beatrice's face transforms in horror and Hero knows she has not hidden her reaction as well as she hoped. "Hero — I am sorry — I did not mean — "

Hero takes a breath, pulling her threads back together, and offers a weak smile, "I am well, Beatrice. It is what I wanted."

Her cousin looks unconvinced. "It is not true. I only said it because you asked me to."

"I know. All is well."

But they both know there is truth behind Beatrice's words. She has never put it so harshly but Hero is aware of what Beatrice thinks of her docile cousin. Hero envies her lion-heart. Next to Beatrice, she will always be the mouse.

"Never ask that of me again," Beatrice commands, unnaturally severe.

And, of course, Hero abides.

But later, in the mirror, she spies '...insolent brat…' in proud letters around her hip and laughs at their mismatched souls.

He received the message.

:-x-:

disappointment

nuisance

dirty blood

unwanted

mistake

:-x-:

Hero touches her marks in her own secret ritual, wondering if he senses the warmth of her fingers on his skin. Sometimes she does it to reassure herself. If her soulmate can endure this abuse then she too can be strong.

In her head, she repeats the silent mantra, hand hovering over her heart, and wills herself to be brave: bastard, freak, scum…

At night, Hero curls in a ball, hugging herself as if she can protect him from the world, holding his seams together.

Her fist presses against her breast, whispering, "I am here. You are not alone."

:-x-:

wretch

mongrel

sullen

rotten

pest

:-x-:

She is familiar with all the words on her skin, though some she understands better than others. Eavesdropping on the workers and the townsfolk, she gleans a few more meanings. None of them good.

The one that puzzles her most is the simple 'half-brother' arced around her shoulder.

She brushes her fingers over the word, tracing them back to 'Bastard', 'misbegotten', 'motherless', and begins to draw a picture…

:-x-:

knave

sinister

leech

sour

demon

:-x-:

'unlovable' coils around her wrist and Hero kisses the place where it passes over her pulse.

"I will love you."

She hides the mark under a ribbon, safe and cherished.

:-x-:

wastrel

miscreant

disgrace

good-for-naught

unclean

:-x-:

Time passes and fewer marks appear. She does not know if this means her soulmate is less afflicted or the words no longer affect him so. She hopes it is the former.

Then, one spring, her skin flourishes like the fields in bruising letters:

villain

traitor

murderer

This last word slips between her ribs, slicing through blood and sinew to pierce her heart…

She is next aware of Margaret's panicked voice above her, sprawled on the floor. Her hand flies to her ribcage, but her chemise conceals the dreadful words. Margaret eases her into bed and fetches her water. Her father is informed and summons a doctor, who diagnoses Hero with hysteria and advises she remain in bed for the next few days.

Hero does not have the strength to protest, staring at the ceiling, scraping her fingers over the familiar letters — Bastard, Bastard, Bastard.

Was she naïve for believing in the goodness of her soulmate, despite the evidence that cluttered her skin? Should she have heeded them as warnings instead of dismissing them as unjust?

She flits from 'worthless' to 'unlovable'.

No. Her soulmate had been the victim once. But now he has victims of his own. She does not prescribe much to blood, except when it stains your hands.

She weeps into her pillow, feeling as if it were her who has had a dagger plunged through her back. A killer, her soulmate is a killer.

:-x-:

Hero tells no one of this terrible revelation. Not even Beatrice, who sits at her bedside, entertaining her with comedic recountings of the days' events and the local gossip, her all-seeing eyes scanning Hero's pallid complexion.

Eventually, Hero grows tired of her bedroom walls and ventures outside. The gardens are in full bloom yet the world seems strangely muted, colourless. She can find no solace in the birdsong, nor any warmth in the sun's golden rays. She languishes in an ocean of grey, a weight around her ankles pulling her down, down…

And then she hears them.

"What do you think will become of the traitor?"

"I hope they hang the bastard. That will teach 'em not to reach above their station."

Hero creeps closer to the rows, the workers unaware of their mistress listening in.

"It is what he deserves for raising arms against his half-brother."

"Aye, a treacherous snake that Don John."

:-x-:

Hero goes to her uncle. He is most likely to be honest and least likely to be suspicious.

"Uncle Antonio, is there a war on?"

He looks surprised before his face turns reassuring. "You have heard the rumours. Fear not, the conflict will not reach here."

"But it is true… the Prince's brother marches against him?"

"Yes, Don John. He seeks to overthrow our good Prince and steal Aragon's throne."

Hero's hands clench in her skirts, resisting the urge to touch her marks. "Then… he is a traitor."

Her uncle answers with uncharacteristic sombreness, "Yes, they all are."

"What if… what if the Prince loses?"

Antonio sucks in a breath, glancing around. "It is treason to speak such. But if by some ill-twist of fate, Don John is victorious, it will do him no good. He has no legitimate claim to the throne and will not have the people's love. There will always be challengers."

"But…" Hero knows she is on dangerous grounds but is unable to hold her tongue, "...his father was the former prince."

"His mother was not the Prince's wife," her uncle answers gently. "He will always be an outcast."

"Then why fight, if the most he will gain is an illusion?"

Her uncle cannot answer her. But she does not need him to. It is already written all over her skin

:-x-:

Hero sits in her bedchamber, tracing the familiar words —

Bastard

half-brother

illegitimate

accident

traitor

— running her fingers over the dark letters as if she can divine answers from them like a soothsayer scrying from bones.

It could be a coincidence…

There is no proof that this Don John is her soulmate.

But the words fit.

Her fingers hover over 'murderer'. If it is true… if her soulmate is Don John or another bastard traitor under his banner… then death is an inevitable element of war. An unpleasant, inglorious element — and for so little gain. But — if it is war then it is not cold-blood. Her own father was a soldier who slew men on the battlefield. If it does not tar him then it cannot stain her star-bound.

She chews her nails. His victims and their families will not see it such… but they would have been enemy soldiers seeking to kill him too. She shudders, nausea swirling in her stomach at the image of her soulmate bleeding out in the dirt…

No. NO. The thought repulses her and she squeezes her hand to her chest. That he might die, before she has even met him —

This is what hate does. She has never spared much thought for her soulmate's tormentors, her heart too full of love for him. But now she is furious — with them and with him. How much death, how many will suffer — mother's losing sons, wives becoming widows, children without a father — all because the world could not love a bastard?

"I will love you."

The promise she made long ago. But can she love him now? She wants the chance to find out, to know him, whoever he may be.

"Stay alive. Stay alive and find me."

:-x-:

Hero listens for any word on the war, but news is slow to reach Messina. She prays for her soulmate, for Don John, and the soldiers on both sides, willing the casualties to be few. Aloud, she expresses support for Don Pedro and wishes the conflict will end soon.

Though no one speaks such in her presence, she hears how the traitor is scorned and hugs herself tight, pleading every night for him to stay alive, stay alive.

She counts her marks, reassuring herself they are still there. She fears waking to find them gone… watching as they wither from her skin, ashes scattered in the wind.

Stay alive. Stay alive.

"Don Pedro is triumphant. His brother has been defeated."

At her father's proclamation, there are cheers and exclamations of relief around the banquet table. So no one hears as Hero's fork clatters from her hand.

"What will happen to him?"

The words are out of her mouth before she can think better.

Her father looks bemused. "To whom, sweet?"

"To Don John."

Her father glances at her uncle, sharing that look they do when they think her too fragile for the truth. Her stomach lurches.

"The Prince will decide what justice shall be served."

Hero's teeth clack together and she is silent for the rest of the evening.

:-x-:

Hero passes the next week in an agonising limbo, waiting on news of Don John's fate. Her only solace is her marks do not fade, 'traitor' burning bold as ever between her shoulder-blades.

If her family notices her solemn mood, they do not comment on it. They are all eager to hear of the war, which lives have been lost in the conflict. Distraction is much needed.

Hero paints on a smile and joins the others for a picnic, managing a few moments of forgetting when Beatrice's jests have her laughing in earnest, ribs-aching for a different reason. Still her thumb rubs the ribbon tied around her wrist, distracted.

She starts when the messenger arrives, nails biting into her thighs as she watches her father's eyes scan the missive.

"I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Aragon comes this night to Messina."

"He is very near by this," the messenger informs, "he was not three leagues off when I left him."

"How many gentlemen have you lost in this action?"

"But few of any sort, and none of name."

"A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers."

Blood roars in Hero's ears. Those are fortunate numbers indeed, which means the losses must have been great for the opposing side. She brushes her bodice, 'murderer' concealed beneath. So much loss and for no gain.

Her father and the messenger continue to converse and she pads towards them in a trance.

"What of Don John?" Her soft voice rings through the clearing and a hush falls at the traitor's name. "What is his fate?"

The messenger peers at her, likely wondering what interest she could have in the villain.

"My daughter has a gentle heart and a great love for her family," her father intercedes. "She has prayed the Prince and his brother would reach a peaceful accord."

The messenger's face clears. "Ah, then the lady shall be pleased. The brothers have reconciled and a treaty drawn. Don John recognises Don Pedro as the rightful sovereign."

There are further cheers and Hero feels as if she can breathe for the first time in weeks. Reconciled, not scheduled for execution or imprisoned. Reconciled. Never has a word brought her more joy and she clasps her hand to her chest, fighting back the tears.

The messenger's next words stop her heart. "He too will be in attendance."

He says this to Leonato with a commiserating look, but Hero's thoughts have frozen, so she does not hear as Beatrice begins needling the messenger for information on a Signior Mountanto.

Here. Don John is coming here.

To Messina.

To her home.

The man who might be her soulmate.

She needs to wash.

She needs to change her dress.

She needs to figure out a plan to determine if he is her match.

Don John is coming here.

It is good everyone else is in high spirits, for Hero could not suppress her smile even if she tried.

Chapter Text

Hero has no idea what to expect as she gathers with the rest of the household in the courtyard to greet the Prince and his retinue. Her heart batters against her chest, fingers twitching where her hands are fastened to her sides. In her head she recounts: bastard, vermin, insolent, wretch…

The soldiers enter, Don Pedro leading the charge, and she bows along with everyone else. Her father welcomes the Prince and Hero rises, her gaze travelling across the assembled soldiers. She recognises Signior Benedick, her cousin's favourite sparring partner, and the Florentine, Claudio, who on occasion has visited his uncle here in Messina. The latter notices her looking and offers a boyish smile, which she cannot help but return.

A movement at the corner of her vision has her head turning and her breath hitches. The man standing to the left of Don Pedro is tall and lithe, his shoulders tense. Somehow, like a tug to her ribcage, she knows this is Don John, and her pulse quickens. Raven locks sweep across his brow, a trim beard shadows a grim jawline. The collar of his jacket is open and she follows the length of his throat before snapping her gaze back to his face.

Flint eyes collide with her own and her heart lurches.

A hand clasps her arm and her father steers her to the Prince. Don Pedro offers a charming smile, but it makes no impact in her dizzied state.

"I think this is your daughter."

"Her mother hath many times told me so."

Cold washes over Hero and she swallows, pasting a smile into place. It is an old joke of her father's, one with an abrading edge. To speak such in front of the Prince and his soldiers —

Benedick joins in the jest, "Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her?"

"Signior Benedick, no, for then were you a child."

Hero ducks her head and escapes her father's side, cheeks burning along with her soulmark. Eyes sear into her and instinctively she knows it is him. She steadies her breathing — bastard, illegitimate, misbegotten — and glances at him from beneath her lashes.

He is watching her, thoughts hidden behind a stone front. Nevertheless, there is something not sympathetic but knowing about his gaze. He understands better than anyone the humiliation of one's birth brought into question. To be understood, even in this small way, has the heat ebbing from her cheeks and pooling at her centre.

(We are the same.)

In the background, she hears Beatrice goading Benedick into a clash of wits, but Hero's focus remains on Don John. His brow knits, frown deepening, and it occurs to her that he expected her to look away. She should. It is unseemly for a lady to stare so long at a man — a stranger. But she feels her gaze magnetised to his, a smile blooming. With the crowd behind her, it is as if they are the only two there.

The moment is broken. The courtyard quietens as her father approaches Don John, stealing his attention. "Let me bid you welcome, my lord. Being reconciled to the Prince, your brother, I owe you all duty."

Don John inclines his head. "I thank you. I am not of many words, but I thank you."

His response is stilted, but the low grate of his voice has sparks skittering down Hero's spine. She bites the inside of her cheek.

Her father shakes his hand to scattering applause and does not see the muscle pulse in the other man's jaw as he turns his smile on the Prince. "Please it your grace lead on?"

"Your hand, Leonato; we will go together."

Don Pedro and her father walk out together, the crowd following behind. As the courtyard empties Hero takes a breath, butterflies fluttering through her stomach, and steps towards Don John.

Beatrice snags her arm before she can reach him, pulling her in the opposite direction. "Come, love. Before Signior Benedick subjects us to more of his wit."

It is obvious the Count of Padua has gotten under her cousin's skin — as only he can — and Hero allows herself to be led away, glancing over her shoulder. Don John's back is to her, slinking after his brother.

No matter, their visitors shall be staying at least a month. There will be plenty of time for Hero to speak with him. After all — she brushes the ribbon around her wrist — it is fate.

:-x-:

Beatrice seethes over Benedick, pacing the bedchamber and hurling slights faster than Hero can follow. She nods politely and exchanges knowing glances with Margaret. Only Signior Benedick can inspire such heat in her cousin.

Hero and Beatrice may not discuss their soulmarks, but they have been sharing baths and quarters for years. Hero has glimpsed her cousin's secrets, as Beatrice has her own. She knows whose words adorn her cousin's skin — recognises the blows Beatrice has dealt herself.

She does not understand why the pair do not acknowledge the bond themselves, for she is certain there is no true loathing between them. Rather, they are like children, pulling at each other's hair, wailing "look at me, look at me!".

Unless it is unrequited. If so, Hero's heart goes out to her cousin and she does not pry.

At last, Beatrice tires and declares she will think no more on the fool, flopping into a chair and opening a book. Hero lingers, pretending to be engrossed in a poem, before she judges a reasonable stretch of time has passed and declares she is going to find her father. Beatrice waves a hand, not glancing up from her page.

Hero leaves their quarters, a skip in her step as she scurries down the hall. She corners one of the servants and asks about her father's whereabouts and if their guests are settled. In a casual tone, almost as a second-thought, she mentions Don John. The servant assures her he has been placed apart from the others. She smiles and inquires after his family's health. When he finishes she chatters excitedly about the masquerade her father is hosting that night in honour of Don Pedro before remembering some errand she has been assigned in connection to this and bids him farewell. She leaves him unsuspecting and glides in the direction of Don John's room.

It might be viewed as improper for a young woman to visit a man in his private chambers, but this is her home and he is her guest. What can be more proper than being a good hostess?

Her pulse flutters as she approaches the door and she steadies her breathing. This is it. She raps on the door.

There is a long pause in which she can hear her heart pounding, then the door opens and all thought leaves her. Don John stands before her, clad in leather breeches, and nothing else.

Heat floods her cheeks, feeling light-headed, no air getting into her lungs. Her mouth parts around a single oh.

"Are you lost?"

It takes several seconds for the words to filter through to Hero, lost in the expanse of skin and muscle, gleaming bronze under the torchlight. She hums. There are words winding around his torso, snaking across his pectorals and skimming his waistline. She tries to focus her brain enough to read them —

A throat clears and he crosses his arms. Her face flames as she takes in his expression, one eyebrow raised, the faintest uplift to the corner of his mouth. Oh, a tremor passes through her, knees going weak.

"My lady?"

Her lashes shutter. Stars above, how perfect those words sound on his tongue.

"Was there something you wanted?" Amusement tints his voice.

Mortification sweeps through her, hot upon her skin, and she gushes out "Yes."

The eyebrow arches higher. He waits another beat, then, "And that was…?"

She wracks her brain. What does she want? Ideas rise to her mind, full of bare flesh — No. No. Not that.

He is waiting for her answer. Lord, help her. He is going to think her simple. She can feel herself flushing red as wine —

"Oh!"

He cocks his head at her gasp. Hero curtseys, dropping her gaze to the floor so she no longer has to suffer the humiliation of facing him.

"My lord, on behalf of my household, we would be honoured if you were to join us for supper."

There is a pause. "Would you?"

Her eyes flicker to his, nerves jittering at the sudden sharpness she observes in his features. "My — my lord?"

"Tell me, what honour does your noble father take in the company of a bastard," he spits the familiar word and Hero's pulse quivers. "My brother is the honour while I am a duty." He slouches against the doorframe, not looking at her as he waves a dismissing hand. "Thank you for your courtesy, good lady. Allow me to repay it by not straying where I am unwanted."

He turns to leave her and the words wrench from her throat, "I want you."

His spine goes rigid, shoulders tensing. Her face blazes as she hears her old mantra echoing between them.

Oh. God. What has she said? And to a stranger no less. She is going to drown herself in the pond.

She slaps her hands to her mouth, fingers twitching. "That is — um — to say — I — uh — I want all — all our guests — to feel — welcome."

It is a feeble excuse, but her thoughts are distracted as the muscles ripple on his back. Her focus narrows to the words written between his shoulder-blades:

She is a comely creature but her wit is dim. She will never shine as her cousin does.

Her throat constricts. She has forgotten the speaker but remembers the words, ones she was not meant to overhear but had all the same. Another in a lifetime of similar remarks. Next to Beatrice, over whom stars dance, she will always appear dull.

This time, however, the words do not sting. For there is a sweetness in seeing them etched onto another's skin. Don John, her star-bound, her soulmate. The realisation does not come in an effervescent stream, but rather like the gentle unfurling of petals on a rare bloom — a long nurtured hope, realised for the first time. Surety soothes her racing heart, the air returning to her lungs.

It is him. It is him.

He turns back to her and she wonders if he too felt the shift. But, no. How could he?

His voice is colourless, his face unreadable. "Even a bastard traitor?"

She sucks in a breath, feeling the cloth stripped from her skin, marks burning under his penetrating gaze. Except, he cannot see. He does not know. These words she wears with pride are the chinks in his armour, wounds others have inflicted. How can she reveal herself to him when her skin is littered with his scars?

Tact, is required.

She offers a smile and a small shrug. "It makes for interesting company."

His face twists in a scowl, his voice dripping venom, "So pleased I can amuse you, lady."

Not good. Not good.

"I mean — I mean that I would take pleasure in your company."

Again, his face turns stolid as he regards her. "I do not think you know what you are saying."

"No…" her shoulders slump and she lifts a hand to her scorched cheek. "Please excuse my clumsy words. I have no talent for speech."

(Her wit is dim.)

He shifts, losing some of his hostility. "In that, we are alike."

(We are the same.)

It is a simple remark, the most meagre of peace offerings, and yet it lights Hero from within, golden sparks licking along wax bones, warming her through.

She leans forward, a smile illuminating her face. "I think… fewer words… makes them all the more precious."

His face changes, she does not know how, but he seems younger than before, truer to his age. "Signior Benedick and your cousin would disagree."

"Signior Benedick and my cousin disagree often and quite vocally. But I find the true value is in what they do not speak."

"Yes, I find much value when Signior Benedick does not speak."

He says it so dryly. Hero giggles, crooking a finger to her lips.

His mouth curves, sending a frisson of heat through her, down to her toes.

It strikes her that he is still shirtless and then she is stammering again. "Um — I should — uh — I should leave you now, my lord. Beg pardon for the intrusion."

He inclines his head, a twinkle in his gaze that was not there before. "My lady."

This time there is a softness to the address and her fingers curl in her skirts. "I am… sorry you do not feel welcome at our table. I hope you enjoy tonight's festivities and will join us on another occasion."

She looks at him through her lashes and he dips his head. "Perhaps."

Hero opens her mouth, wanting to stretch this moment but also fearing she will make a further fool of herself if she lingers too long.

Instead, she smiles, bobbing another curtsey. "My lord."

She hesitates —

— and spins on her heel before her resolve crumbles, narrowly avoiding slamming her face into the doorpost and hurrying down the hall. She does not stop until she is far away and out of sight, then she slumps against the wall, crumpling to the floor, and buries her face in her arms

That could have gone better.

But —

She remembers the amused lilt in his voice, the slight uplift of his lips, the words on his skin. Her stomach flutters. She spoke to him. She spoke to her soulmate.

Hero raises her head, stroking the ribbon around her wrist as a smile fills her cheeks, "John…"

:-x-:

"She seems a sweet lady. If strange," Conrade remarks as Don John shuts the door.

Out of sight, he listened to the curious exchange. At first he pitied the lady, evidently flustered by Don John's state of undress. As their conversation continued, he wondered if she might have consumed too much of the vineyard's wine, as she sounded close to propositioning the prince. Then their voices softened and when Don John turned he almost appeared to be smiling.

It is quick to sharpen into a scowl. "She is… inconsequential."

Conrade shrugs and does not press the matter. Don John lies on the table and Conrade grabs the oils to begin his massage. As he kneads the other man's back, moving over soulmarks and battle-scars alike, his attention snags on a string of words he has not seen before.

Her mother hath many times told me so.

Conrade squints at the odd and somehow familiar words. It is impolite to read another's soulmark and he decides not to mention them. Knowing Don John's temperament, he would not appreciate it. The man has never expressed any interest in his soulmate and Conrade does not wish to incur his wrath.

No, Conrade will stick to safer topics and leave this for Don John to discover himself.

Chapter Text

obedient

mild

dull

John's soulmarks are few and unremarkable. He pays them little notice.

When he was younger he savoured those words that appeared on his skin. Here was proof he was not the soulless bastard others condemned him to be. Here was someone who was his, who shared a bond with him no one else could.

At first, the words amused him. Most lamented that he was not more mild, more obedient.

(You have no spine.)

His father wanted him to abide his commands and perform to his will. The court wanted him to fade into the background, to be dismissed and forgotten; the shadow to Pedro's golden splendour.

(You bow to your father's will, no more than his dancing doll.)

As he grew older, the more his collar chafed, and he became frustrated with his passive soulmate.

(Where there should be spirit, there is string.)

"Obedient," the other boys jeered after pinning him down and stripping him of his shirt. "No spine."

John gnashed his teeth and showed them his claws.

(You mistake obedience for character)

It was like a challenge, daring him to be bad. The weaker his soulmate seemed, the fiercer he became. They called him wild, so he gave them a beast. They called him wicked, so he became a devil.

(and thus will never be the author of your own fate.)

"We are not the same," he told the marks.

He would not let the world tell him who he was and who he could be. He would rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in their grace, wilting in his father's gilded cage. He would be master of his fate. Through bloodied teeth and splintered bone, he would carve out his fortune. No marks would define him.

:-x-:

"Do you think she will love you bastard, because her words are on your skin?"

A knee presses down on his throat, cutting off his airflow.

"Remember, your words are on her too. Do you think she will want a filthy-blooded mongrel like you? She will hate you for tainting her with your twisted soul."

Spit splatters on his cheek.

"You are unlovable, bastard. Never forget."

:-x-:

John does not need a soulmate. It grates that there is someone who knows the truth of his vulnerabilities, who could wield those weaknesses against him. John does not need another person to mock him, to scorn him.

John does not need anyone.

:-x-:

Borachio brings intelligence that Pedro intends to mediate a match between Claudio and Leonato's daughter, Hero.

This last name makes John pause, recollecting their encounter at his chamber door. Her smile flames across his mind, a blazing comet which struck the earth and robbed him of breath. And she is for Claudio? The young upstart who overthrew him in battle and cut down his men in crimson slashes?

Oh, he can make mischief of this.

Their plans decided, the three conspirators leave to prepare for the night's masquerade. As he strides through the hall another group rounds the corner and he comes face-to-face with the lady in question.

Hero stares at him, the same doe-eyed wonder as before. The corners of his mouth flicker. On impulse, he snatches her hand, raising it to his lips. Her skin is soft beneath his touch and he strokes his thumb along her knuckles, fingers brushing the ribbon tied around her wrist. The kiss is fleeting but it leaves him scorched.

Of course, she turns from him first; looking to her father as if for guidance on how she should receive the bastard's favour now there is an audience. Ash fills his mouth and he marches on into the night, Borachio and Conrade following behind.

They don their masks and cloaks, entering the revel with the others. It does not take long to locate the lovelorn Claudio, watching the dancers, his focus fixed on Hero as she spins in the arms of a masked figure that must be Pedro. John understands his brother is to woo Hero on Claudio's behalf. How easy this will be.

"Are not you Signior Benedick?"

"You know me well, I am he," answers Claudio.

"Signior, you are very near my brother in his love: he is enamoured on Hero. I pray you dissuade him from her, she is no equal for his birth."

"How know you he loves her?"

"I heard him swear his affection."

Claudio's jealousy is quick to ignite and they leave him stewing in betrayal. As John goes, he spies Pedro, now unmasked, in intense discussion with Hero. His brother bends to kiss the lady's hand and she smiles.

John walks on.

:-x-:

If Claudio exhibited as much charm during their previous encounters as he does now, Hero never noticed. Though their meetings were brief, she is sure she would have remembered if he praised her with such passion before. Certainly, the Florentine has a pleasing smile, and if the stars were different, it might have kindled something in her which would flare into a blaze under the heat of his affections. But Hero cannot entertain his advances when her heart is for another.

The dance finishes and Hero speaks before he can flatter her further. "Good, sir, though your kindness is well-received, please understand that the claim on my soul means I can offer no more than a dance.

Her partner pauses but does not appear disheartened. "Lady, such fidelity is to your credit, but if my good character eliminates me from your heart, then please do not hold me in such great faith. While I do desire your high regard, I must humbly admit I am neither without fault nor enemies. Do not place too much weight upon the marks on your skin. We are all only mortal."

It takes a moment for Hero to wrap her head around this eloquent speech and piece together her response, "I… I do not dismiss you out of high regard—"

"Indeed? I hope it is not low regard," he chuckles, causing Hero to lose her thread of thought.

"No, no — you are an excellent gentleman and a fine dancer."

"Then I do not understand. If your marks are great, it bodes a bad match. And if your marks are few, there is no cause to think I am not he. Would you reject me so quick?"

It is true, she does not know Don John well, and what she does know is no foundation for marriage. As much as she wants to believe in him, a soul-bond is no guarantee of happiness or security. But neither does she know Claudio, aside from a few fleeting exchanges. The man before her is a stranger.

"I should not accept you so quick either. Would you woo me so fast?"

Her partner nods his masked head, conceding her point. "Pardon me, lady, if my courtship seems in haste, for Cupid flies on swift wings."

"But, my lord, pray collect, it is the slower dances most suited to a lover's pace."

Beatrice likened wooing to a Scotch jig, but Hero has no wish for hot and hasty if it means tired legs are soon to collapse. She has nurtured this love since her first mark bloomed; she will not rush in and trample that fragile bud. Rather, she will be patient and learn the man whose soul adorns her skin. She thinks of her conversation with John, how he made her laugh, and her lips curl into a small smile

A hand closes around her wrist. "Then it is to be the pavane."

Hero startles, realising she has not discouraged Claudio's advances, rather she has encouraged them at a slower pace.

She jerks her hand free. "Sir, I make you no promises."

"Ah, you are prudent, lady." His voice exudes confidence, the hairs on her neck prickling. "I have no doubt you will recognise the suit which honours you best. And so you do not think me arrogant when I claim Claudio the most worthy of gentlemen—"

He removes his mask and cloak. Hero's hands fly to her mouth, gasping as Don Pedro's pearly grin is revealed.

"Forgive our deception, good lady. Claudio being a dear friend, I sought to reward his loyalty by obtaining your hand for him. But I see my charms are not equal to an honest heart. Thus, I shall apprise him of your wishes and allow the matter to be settled between you."

Hero stares amazed, perturbed that she could be taken in so easily — that her hand be treated like a sport, an honour for one man to bestow upon another. She holds herself stiff, arms plastered to her sides as she purses her lips, cheeks burning.

The Prince does not appear to notice her flustered state, still smiling as if the joke is shared. "Do not think my praises false. You are worthy of a thousand paeans, sweet lady. I hope we shall be friends."

At this sincere declaration, the bad feeling fizzles out of Hero. Don Pedro acted in goodwill on behalf of a friend, she will not begrudge him.

When he kisses her hand, she recalls another pair of lips, hot upon her skin, and smiles. "Faith, good prince. I pray we shall be as near as brother and sister."

:-x-:

John skulks at the edge of the celebration. Not from rejection but preference. In his mask, he is as welcome as anyone, but can take no pleasure in the writhing crowd with their raucous laughter. The wine does not loosen his tongue and he has no talent for conversing with strangers; nor does he desire the closeness required to be heard over this din. Not that anyone is likely to follow what he says with how the wine is flowing.

He slinks through the shadows, keeping his distance from the bumbling drunks. A laugh snatches his attention — he does not know how, as it is not loud, but soft and melodious, like windchimes in the breeze. He looks. Somehow he knew it would be her.

Hero is a flutter of white under the glow of the torches, pressed into her cousin's side, laughing at whatever the other woman is saying. With them is her father and uncle, another woman, and Don Pedro. None of them are wearing masks. John observes their easy camaraderie and wonders how quickly it would shatter if he were to approach.

He remains where he is standing, apart from the crowd. He does not understand what prompts her, but Hero turns, catching sight of him. She tilts her head, regarding him. John holds himself still, reminding himself that she cannot know who he is behind his mask.

Another round of laughter and a tug at her arm has her looking back to the others and John can breathe again. He strides from the scene, weaving through the revelling sea, in need of some air. He finds a spot, on the fringe, where the torches are few, and none linger except a few sprawling drunks.

John draws his mask onto his head, breathing in as the cool breeze fans his cheeks. He loathes large gatherings like these. Sure, it is easy to get lost in a crowd, but harder to react to threats with so many voices and movements swarming his senses. He has not been among numbers this great since his failed uprising.

All those men are dead now.

He takes in the drunks slumped across the grass, revellers staggering together, their shouts of laughter warped and echoing. He blinks and he is somewhere else, the cries of men deafen his ears, the clang of steel—

Someone brushes his arm, "My lord—"

He whirls, snatching the wrist, a sharp inhale and a goblet clatters to the ground. John watches as red seeps into soil.

"My lord…" comes the soft voice.

He jerks his head, meeting Hero's gaze. Concern lights her features and he realises his arm is shaking, his fingers clenched around her wrist. He drops it instantly.

"Forgive me, lady," he rasps. "Are you hurt?"

Her fingers flex and she smiles, shaking her head. "No." She peers at him. "Are you?"

He follows her gaze and sees his hands are trembling. He clasps them into fists, trying to control their reaction, but it only worsens the sensation, nails biting into his palms.

Delicate fingers ease over his knuckles, settling around his hands. He stares and lifts his gaze to Hero's. Her smile is achingly gentle.

"I am not so fearsome, I hope."

He stiffens, his initial instinct is to balk, but something about the comment makes him pause. Her expression is kind, without judgement. He has the strangest sense she is holding her breath.

"No…" he answers slow. "Not so fearsome."

Her smile warms. Had she followed him here? But how had she known it was him and to what purpose? He glances down at their joined hands, his no longer shaking.

After a beat, she releases him, retracting her hands to her side. He expects her to leave but she lingers, an odd shyness about her. He wonders how she was bold enough to touch him if his very presence makes her nervous.

"Are you… enjoying the masquerade?"

John drags his gaze around where they are standing on the outskirts of the festivities. "It is… lively." She tilts her head, the motion putting him in mind of the woodland fauna. "I needed a respite."

She gives a soft smile. "That, I understand. It can be… overwhelming."

John inclines his head, biting down on his tongue before it reveals more. She swings on her feet, wringing her hands, and he does not understand why she stays.

"Would you be opposed to company? I too am in need of breath."

He considers her then glances out where the rest of the revellers cavort. "You are free to do what you please."

Her lips part before pressing into a smile. Silence settles between them as they both look out upon the dancers. He observes her from the edge of his vision. He cannot puzzle out her motives for remaining at his side or approaching him in the first place. Is this some trick crafted by his brother? A ploy to discover his plans or prevent him from further malevolence? But none of these theories align with the image of the guileless maiden she presents. John has known liars, himself one. If she is someone's pawn then she is an unwitting one.

Well, what is the use of a bad reputation if you cannot be blunt. "Lady, pardon my forwardness, but was there a reason you sought me?"

Her eyes widen and she ducks her head. "Um… I… because… you… that is… uhh… I…"

She swallows and he pulls his monstrous mask over his face, "Is this less frightening?"

She laughs, shuffling closer. Her fingers flit over his scarlet beak. He stills, pulse beating in his throat. "Hmmm… not as handsome."

His every muscle tenses. He sees when her words catch up to her, eyes bulging and her hand slaps over her mouth. The raw earnestness of her reaction has his shoulders loosening and he chuckles.

"Careful. You will turn me red."

Her hand drops, features transforming. "You are as bad as Benedick."

"Oof. Bravo, lady, that is a cut."

She falters, hand pressing to her heart. "Not a deep one, I hope."

"Be assured, he would take the greater offence."

For some reason, she frowns. Her gaze slides to the celebrations before returning to him, looking up through her lashes. "Will you ask me to dance… my lord?"

Her voice, soft and fragile, holds him frozen. His instincts scream of a trap, but she appears so genuine. As his silence lasts, she grows more agitated, searching his mask. This insecurity — the fear he glimpses in her eyes, of being rejected — is what spurs him.

"Are you… sure?"

She brightens, fingers brushing the end of his beak. "At the risk of losing an eye… you are not an easy man to get close to."

Do you want to get close?

He reaches for the mask, baring his face to her once more. Later, when Conrade asks, he will dismiss his actions as a means of flaunting his success over his brother and riling Claudio. However, in this moment, his thoughts are for no one but Hero as he offers her his hand.

"Will you dance with me, my lady?"

She beams, a smile like starlight.

Together, they walk hand-in-hand, joining the stream of dancers. John is not often sought for dances; there is always that hesitation over whether being a prince outweighs being a bastard (he is confident the brand of traitor will tip those scales). However, on the occasions he does dance, no one can accuse him of being a bad partner (that ammunition is denied them). He received a similar education to Pedro, dance lessons included, and, being the competitive sort, excelled at all.

He sweeps Hero across the grass, movements flowing in time with the slow tempo of the song. She smiles throughout, haloed in flame, sparks of red and gold catching in her hair, a flush rises in her cheeks as she twirls, skirts and sleeves fluttering wisps of moonlight, her fingers laced with his own. John forgets about the crowd, shadows at the corners of his vision, even the music fades, ears filling with her saccharine laugh. All he sees is Hero.

Whether they dance for a minute or an hour, the night feels timeless, the stars glitter overhead, and the pair spin on as if the rest of the world does not exist. John realises he is smiling, the first in a long time. His fingers flex, feeling the cotton of her dress, the tremble of her pulse, soft skin under calloused hands, the ripple of sable curls, the fan of her lashes, eyes luminous, splashes of meadow green among earth-brown, rose-lips parting around a breath, warm across his jaw…

He pulls back, raising her hand to his lips, kissing it with fervour. He hears the hitch in her breath and his smile curves, flattered by her awe.

He lowers her hand, forcing his fingers to release. "Thank you for the dance, my lady."

With a swish of his cloak, he strides from her, weaving through the revellers. His heart hammers in his ears and he resists the urge to glance back, to check if it is her gaze burning into him. Best to leave as a dream. Tomorrow they will be back to their roles, and the virtuous lady will have nothing to do with the treasonous bastard. But for tonight he will savour her smile, allowing it to warm him through, and remember what it was to hold her.

Chapter Text

Pedro does not manage to speak with Claudio until almost noon. He expected the lovestruck youth to be waiting excitedly for news on Hero, but when he searched the garden, Pedro could not find him.

After rising for a late breakfast along with the rest of the yawning household, he learned that Claudio had broken his fast earlier and wandered into town to visit his uncle. It is another hour before Pedro spies him along the dust path leading to the villa from the town and jogs to catch him.

"Good count, where have you been keeping? I have burning news I must impart."

Claudio turns stiffly. "Good day, my lord. Am I to congratulate you on a successful scheme?"

"Alas, the congratulations must wait, the lady requires a leisured wooing."

"She expressed such to you?"

"Indeed, and I think the better of her for it. Love is not to be won in disguise."

Claudio's lips purse as if he has swallowed a bitter tonic. "Aye, I have learned it late."

Pedro clasps his shoulder. "It is not a great sorrow, I hope? There shall be other chances."

Claudio's shoulders hunch. "Yes… there will be others…"

He looks so forlorn, Pedro pities the poor man. He must have had his heart set on being betrothed, Hero's hand secure.

"I am sorry to have served you poorly."

Claudio shakes his head, a harsh movement. "No — no — you honour me with your friendship. That bond between us is a greater treasure than a mere jewel. I remain in faith to you, as men should without the fairer influence."

Pedro chuckles and throws his arm around his friend. "You are an excellent man, Claudio. Next time I shall leave the wooing to you."

"Yes, do."

His response is curt and Pedro understands he is trying to conceal his disappointment. But his sadness shall not last long. Pedro is confident the lady will soon see what a fine gentleman Claudio is and accept his suit.

"Come, let us find Benedick. The lady Beatrice has his measure and he is in a right brood. It is most entertaining. Come."

:-x-:

Messina is without cloud, endless blue pooling into prosperous green, the vast hillsides rise in the background, Mount Etna's white peaks looking down on them all. John reclines under the hot sun, like the serpent in Eden, and wonders how he is to while away the hours. All he has now is time. No purpose. No ambition.

He has accomplished some mischief between Pedro and Claudio. Perhaps he can stir the pot. How far would he have to poke Claudio before he unleashed the monster John witnessed on the battlefield. There are names he does not let himself remember — their blood is on his hands. But it is on Claudio's too. Amidst Messina's peaceful hinterland, the birds chirping in the trees and the workers singing in the fields, he hears their screams the loudest.

"Good day, my lord."

John cracks open his eyes, squinting against blinding daylight before his vision adjusts. Hero smiles down at him, haloed in the sun's glow, swathed in a similar dress to the one which spun through his dreams last night.

"Lady," he replies, thoughts a seafoam swell.

"I brought refreshment." She holds out a cup, which John accepts, peering at the wine within. It is white.

"Thank you." He drinks.

When he lowers the cup, he notices her staring and arches a brow. He watches, fascinated, as the colour creeps across her cheeks.

"The weather is pleasant, is it not?"

John cocks his head. "It is."

She looks lost and John supposes he should offer a better response. But he has already admitted he is not a man of many words. He has never enjoyed small talk; pleasantries are a veil for barbed tongues.

Though, not with her.

She is all softness and sincerity.

He clenches his jaw and digs for his voice. "Your home is…" his gaze flits to hers, "...beautiful."

Her smile spreads and she sinks onto the ground beside him. "It is. I am blessed to live in such a place." Her fingers thread through the grass, twirling around the budding flowers. "What of your home? What is it like in Aragon?

The name is a hot poker through his chest. He bites down a curse, the taste of iron in his mouth. "That is not my home."

She flinches, her eyes wide and wounded. He swallows a snarl and is only half successful judging by her startled reaction. Hell, she looks like a frightened rabbit, its coat torn by the wolf's fangs. He lowers his gaze to the dirt — and he calls Claudio a monster.

"But… then… where is your home?"

He shuts his eyes. Why is she here? What does she want from him?

(This is why he does not talk.)

"Traitors do not have homes."

Blood settles on his tongue. Her fingers brush his arm and his eyes snap open. She is looking at him with those soft, doe eyes and his chest tightens.

"I am sorry."

He stares at her. "Why?"

She opens and closes her mouth a few times before she manages to answer, "Because… I am."

Her face is a bleeding heart. John looks away. "I was never welcome there."

Her hand squeezes his wrist. "You are welcome here."

He scoffs, mouth slanting in disbelief. "Am I?"

"Yes," she says with force and a purse to her lips.

In spite of everything, John mouth crooks.

Hero's lips part, blossoming into a smile. She leans forward, fingers warm on his skin —

"Lady!"

They turn. Hero's serving woman hurries down the path; her eyes widen as she spies John.

"Good day, Ursula," Hero greets the older woman. "Is there something you require?"

"My lady… my lord," she nods to them both, swallowing, "...I have come to bid you inside… dinner is soon to be served."

John stands, offering his hand to Hero, who takes it with a smile, rising to her feet. From the corner of his gaze he sees Ursula glancing rapidly between them. He lets go of Hero's hand.

"We shall be right along," Hero tells the other woman.

Ursula hesitates, looking uncertain. Then, she gives a brusque nod and walks back in the direction she came.

Hero smiles at John from under her lashes and his pulse stutters. "Will you escort me in to dinner?"

"Lady…" he trails off, unsure how to answer.

"I know you feel unwelcome at our table, but let me prove to you — and everyone else — that I want you there. No one will snub you if I am on your arm."

As if he cares what anyone else thinks.

He stares at her, the stubborn set to her shoulders. He does not understand. Why is she bothering with him? Is it pity? Some plot? But she seems so earnest, as if she truly desires his company. Like the bird hopping before the snake.

He offers out his arm. "My lady."

She beams and slips her arm through his. "You may call me Hero, if it pleases you."

He schools his expression so as not to reveal how much it pleases him. "You may call me John, if you wish."

She brightens and he tries to ignore how her heat presses into his side. "John."

He near stumbles as she says his name, warm and wondrous. The smallest crack shudders through his stone-heart.

:-x-:

There are stares as Hero enters with Don John, but she does not balk; her arm warm in the crook of his elbow, his words scrawled under her clothes — bastard, filth, traitor. He holds himself unflinching, that defiant tilt to his chin — and if he shall not be cowed then neither shall she.

Their united front is ended as they are sat on opposite ends of the table, these being the only places remaining. Don John is positioned next to Antonio, and Hero is reassured that her uncle will make a sincere effort to engage the taciturn prince.

To her distress, she is seated between Benedick and Claudio. She fears the latter will persist in the courtship the Prince began in his name the previous night. However, Claudio is unusually terse through the whole meal, scowling into his wine and hacking at the rabbit on his plate with a force that has her shuffling sideways in her chair.

She is thankful for Benedick, who compensates for his companion, engaging her in such lighthearted conversation that she almost forgets the scrape of the knife beside her. Across the table, Don Pedro also appears to notice the count's sullen mood and leans forward, attempting to stir Claudio into speech. His efforts are in vain and as the dinner comes to a close, Claudio is the first to excuse himself.

Hero wonders if his behaviour is because she rejected his suit and hopes he is not very heartbroken. She does not like the thought of causing anyone hurt, even if she has no interest in Claudio. However, as Claudio stalks from the room, her gaze catches on Don John, and she sees the satisfied smile that slips across his face.

She wonders…

:-x-:

"Has the Prince expressed no intentions towards you? You were dancing quite closely last night."

"None but friendship, father," Hero tells him as they walk together through the halls.

Her father frowns. "Hmm… I suppose it was a most fantastical dream. Still, we shall see over the moon's course what attentions he bestows on you."

Hero smiles politely and does not mention it was on Claudio's behalf that Don Pedro sought her hand. Her father would push her into the arms of the Florentine and that is not what she wants.

"What of Don John? I saw you dance with him as well. And you arrived for dinner on his arm."

Her smile blooms and she casts her gaze to the stones beneath her feet, cheeks warming. "I know not what is in his head, but find no displeasure in his attention."

This is the mildest description for how her heart leaps whenever Don John is near, her soulmarks singing as if they were written in gold. She amazes herself with how good an actress she is proving, managing to present a composed front even as her insides melt at the sound of his voice, the set of his jaw.

Her father hums, his face considering. "Then there too may something yield."

Hero sucks in a breath and squeezes her father's arm, leaning her head on his shoulder.

He smiles and strokes her chin. "Even princes and counts can see what a rare jewel my daughter is. We shall have you a husband before the summer's end, I am certain of it."

:-x-:

"Good den, my lord," Hero chirps as she skips over to John on the garden path.

He halts his stride, turning to her, a bemused lift to his lips. "My lady. We should stop meeting like this."

"But I enjoy our meetings." She smiles, her stomach aflutter.

He stares at her as if she is some make-believe fae-creature. His throat bobs and his shoulders tense, when he speaks his voice is low, "You do not want to be seen long in the company of a traitor. Folk will think we are conspiring."

"That depends on what we are conspiring." She blinks her lashes, leaning forward. "No one would ever believe me dangerous"

"I think you deadly." The corners of his mouth rise, before tightening. "But folk will assume I am corrupting you."

Hero is tempted to tell him any corruption happened years ago, when bastard, bitch, and whore were added to her vocabulary. But it is too soon for that reveal, she must be delicate.

"I promise to be extraordinarily pleasant to your brother so no one can accuse me of playing favourites."

She twirls along the path, her skirts fanning around her. When she looks back at him, he is gawping at her.

She smiles and holds out her arm. "John, will you be my escort to supper?"

There is a long stretch of silence in which her heart batters her chest, then he breaks from whatever trance he is under, striding forward to kiss her hand.

"My lady… Hero… it would be my honour."

Hero's toes curl and she manages to keep her feet on the ground. Just.

:-x-:

"I thought Don John gave me heart-burn, but Count Claudio's sour visage near spoiled my appetite," Beatrice drawls, lounging across Hero's bed. "It is better you do not tie yourself to such a man. If that is how he looks in gloom, you will starve in strife."

Hero laughs, climbing onto the bed beside her. "My heart did go out to him. He looked so poorly."

"Your heart cannot have gone far. For I suspect, sweet cousin, if it were given, Count Claudio would not appear so ill." Beatrice drapes herself around Hero, whispering in her ear. "Unless, to another it has gone. I saw how Don John watches you. As if his heart were burning."

Hero's cheeks flame and the two of them collapse onto the sheets, giggling.

"Tell me, dearest," Beatrice leans over her, brushing Hero's curls aside. "Is there some truth in my nonsense?"

Hero sits up, her thumb caressing the ribbon around her wrist. "He is handsome."

Beatrice does not ask who. "I never realised your tastes ran so sharp." Her shrewd gaze flicks to Hero's breast and the mark hidden beneath her nightgown. "Though, I should have suspected."

Hero meets her cousin's gaze and Beatrice hesitates, a rare occurrence. She cannot comment on Hero's soulmarks, unless she is prepared for Hero to inquire after the 'prince's jester' and 'very dull fool' she recently glimpsed.

"You will be careful with him, pet? He has turned his colours twice now."

Hero purses her lips and bites back a retort. Beatrice is only looking out for her.

"I have no intention of stumbling into a fall."

Beatrice smiles and embraces her. "Remember, dear heart, any man causes you trouble, send him to me. I shall sort him out."

"You will eat their hearts."

"A fitting punishment." She tucks a curl behind Hero's ear. "Though anyone who harms you, sweet, must be heartless indeed."

Hero hugs her cousin, toppling them together onto the bed, and hopes no hearts will be broken. Or eaten.

Chapter Text

It is a beautiful summer's day, the household and their guests carry their hampers into the hillside, spreading their blankets across the grass glade. Hero sprawls out beside Beatrice, weaving wildflowers into her cousin's hair. Laughter flows with the wine and the food is shared around. The musicians strum a pleasant tune, a backdrop to the merriment.

At some point, the conversation turns to war; old soldiers trading stories with the young. Messina's inhabitants crowd forward, listening in rapture to the tales of the recent insurrection; the winning battle recounted in glorious detail. Hero shifts, glancing to the shadowed copse where the villain of the piece has sat himself, apart from everyone else.

"To Don Pedro," Benedick raises a toast. "Our true and most beloved sovereign, under whose rule we so prosper."

Hero joins in the cheers, but her smile is thin, her cup heavy in her hand.

Claudio stands, lifting his own cup. "To the Prince! A most magnanimous ruler, even traitors know his benevolence. It is an honour to serve a man as noble as his blood. Long may he reign."

Hero does not partake in the applause, the wine sour on her tongue. Don Pedro smiles and thanks his friends, bidding they speak of something else.

"Humble prince, modest lord," the people chorus.

Hero shuffles across the blankets. "Signior Benedick, will we receive another show of your skill with the bow?"

Benedick's eyes light and he puffs out his chest. "Point me a target, my lady, and I shall prove what a man can accomplish when his aim is true."

"Then we best seek cover, for in jest, Signior Benedick, you fire like a blind man," Beatrice joins them. "The sharpest arrows could not help you hit your mark. You would do better to trade your bow for a club."

Benedick goes steaming red and the crowd's attention turns, watching as the two wits snap at each other.

"I, at least, know battle, lady. You sit in your room dreaming up barbs to spear the rest of us with, but will never know what it is to take up arms or fight a noble cause. Yours is a dull existence and for that I pity you."

Beatrice releases a sound, half squawk, half snarl — but no words follow. Hero is alarmed to see her cousin pale, rendered speechless before an audience.

Don Pedro swoops in, chuckling as he wraps his arm around Benedick's shoulder, leading him away. "Peace, please, my friend. I can stomach no more talk of war on as fine a day as this. Musicians strike up, let us be merry."

The musicians play once more and slowly chatter resumes amongst the picnickers.

Hero tugs on her cousin's sleeve, "Beatrice…"

Beatrice breaks from her trance, ripping her arm from Hero's grasp and marching down the hill without a backwards glance.

Hero stands momentarily frozen, then goes to pursue. A hand on her arm prevents her.

She turns, finding an elderly gentleman smiling at her. "You are Leonato's daughter, yes? The fair lady Hero?"

"I… I am."

She watches as Beatrice's golden head bobs out of view, her stomach squeezing, the cheese and cured meats she has eaten threatening to reappear. Glancing up, she notices Benedick staring down the hill.

"My nephew has spoken highly of you."

She blinks, looking back to the man beside her. "O-oh… who — who is your nephew?"

"Why, the honourable Count Claudio."

:-x-:

More than anything, Hero wants to go after Beatrice and check if her cousin is alright. But she is trapped in polite conversation, sat beside Claudio's uncle, who alternates between flattering her and praising his nephew. She tries to be gracious but her thoughts are elsewhere. The fear she may have unintentionally caused her cousin harm gnaws inside her and she has no appetite for any of the food or wine offered to her.

"I hear even the Prince is enamoured of your beauty," Claudio's uncle lavishes and Hero's gaze flicks to where Don John has been cornered into conversation with her uncle before she realises she has the wrong royal.

Claudio's uncle follows her gaze and his pleasant smile blackens into a scowl. "I do not understand how the Prince tolerates the traitor. If my brother, of full-blood, betrayed me as the bastard did, I would have slain him where he stood. It would be a mercy to put the mongrel down. To us and the cur. Every breath he takes pollutes the air."

Hero is stone. Her heart beats against a marble breast, hollow in her ears.

"You know it was my nephew's military genius that ensured the bastard's defeat. If only the Prince had more of Claudio's courage; he would have severed the traitor's head from his shoulders."

Hero gags and staggers to her feet. "Par-pardon me, sir. I fear I am — in need of air."

It is an odd excuse given they are outside but he accepts it with a gracious smile. "Of course. My nephew shall accompany you. Claudio — will you walk with this sweet lady?"

Claudio rises, his expression pinched, but he nods to his uncle and offers Hero his arm. Her gaze darts around the picnic, but she cannot refuse him. She sets her arm through his as one would a trap, forcing a fractured smile. They set off down the hillside in silence; Claudio's gaze fixed ahead.

The weight of the silence falls between them, pressing uncomfortably around Hero. As much as she does not want to converse with Claudio, it feels wrong not to and she scrounges for something to say.

"What lovely weather we are hav—"

"My lady, I must speak." Claudio whirls, his face set with determination.

Oh Heaven, do not let him propose. They are far enough now from the picnic not to be overheard but if anyone sees him go down on one knee it will be a terrible mess.

"I know the Prince is for you — and I recognise that as a mere count, I cannot compare to his royal splendour. Mine is a humble love. But, please understand, I hold you both in the highest esteem and bear you no ill. Therefore, please trust no jealousy infects my heart when I advise you thus."

Hero stares, mystified by his words. It is not the profession of love she was braced for but heartfelt nonetheless. Claudio looks so desperately earnest that she softens.

"My lord."

"I understand you wish to endear yourself to the Prince's kin. It is admirable to seek the good in someone so undeserving, but Don John is without conscience. His soul is as black as his blood. You should not have to sully yourself with indulging the bastard's attentions. Nor should you trust his treacherous charms. He is against you, lady. He bid me dissuade the Prince from you, being that much lower than him in birth."

Hero is still, her arm limp in Claudio's iron clasp, but at this proclamation her lashes flutter, her voice faint, "...did he?"

Claudio speaks with vigor, harsh colour rising in his cheeks. "Yes, it is from him I learned — well, it was at the masquerade, he mistook me for Benedick. But, he is a vicious, spiteful creature, and resents his noble brother's vast accomplishments. I fear he intends the Prince an injury and will use you as his weapon."

They have drifted close to the pond Hero used to paddle in as a child, and she extracts her arm from Claudio, wandering to the shoreline. The breeze whips at her hair, sending ripples across the water.

"Are you certain he acts in malice? Perhaps it was fraternal love that spurred his concern. Perhaps he feared a common bride would not be accepted by the Aragon court and wished to spare his brother pain. Joh— Prince John has been… a friend to me."

Claudio's frown deepens, his voice dripping with disdain. "An act. While I commend your kind heart, lady, he is a villain by nature, incapable of love. He knows he will never be more than a bastard and covets that which belongs to others. He is a thief and a traitor; such filth is beneath our notice. I rue his scream was not amongst those of the treacherous swine I cut down on the field. I wish God speed in banishing him to Hell, to burn with his fellow traitors in eternal damnation. Heed me, sweet, virtuous Hero. Do not lower yourself for the vermin. Lest his fleas catch."

Hero is silent, looking out across the water, her shoulders tensed. She does not realise she has untied the ribbon around her wrist until the wind snatches it from between her fingers. She gasps, reaching for it, but it is too late, the ribbon wafts onto the surface of the pond.

"My ribbon!"

"I shall fetch it! Never fear, my lady."

Ever the gallant, Claudio wades into the lake after her ribbon; the shallow water licking at his boots.

"Be careful," Hero calls, fingers digging into her waist. "It will be slippery."

Claudio grins back at her. "I am a soldier, lady. I have braved worse terrains."

Hero thinks of soil slick with blood and says no more.

Claudio scoops up her ribbon, releasing a triumphant sound as he brandishes it aloft. He is transformed from the frightening man he was moments ago, that joyous youth once more. Hero offers a smile, frayed at the edges, and applauds. He makes to turn and she sees his leg sweep from under him, the rest of his body toppling after.

She screams as he disappears beneath the murky tide. "Claudio! Help! HELP!"

At her cries, men come charging down the hill. Claudio resurfaces, soaked, and spitting water. The pond is not deep, but there is a ledge where the shallows suddenly drop out. It is not something one would be aware of, unless they had grown up playing in the water.

Hero rushes to Claudio's aid. "My lord, are you alright?"

He staggers from the pond, his clothes soaked and breeches smeared with mud.

"Fine," he grits out, the faintest chatter to his teeth. "My lady."

Guilt coils around Hero's heart.

"Claudio!" Benedick chortles as he reaches them. "Did you have a pleasant swim?"

Claudio fixes him with a ferocious look and Hero retreats a step.

Benedick is undeterred, clapping his friend's shoulder. "Do not pout. In this fine weather you shall soon dry out."

Claudio snarls and shoves him into the pond. Hero jumps back as Benedick hits the water with a splash, muddy droplets spraying across her skirt.

"Your ribbon, lady." Claudio thrusts the sodden length of silk into her hand and marches up the hill before she can thank him, boots sloshing.

Benedick clambers from the pond, cursing. Hero takes his hand, helping him to his feet. He splutters, flinging his wet coat to the ground. He rolls up his sleeves and sweeps his hair from his face.

Hero sucks in a breath as there, wrapped around his forearm, she sees Lady Disdain.

There is no one else it could belong to. Beatrice's soul-bond is requited.

She looks away before she is caught ogling and hurries back to the picnic. Everyone is watching Claudio stomp about, even those pretending to be engrossed in conversation.

"What are you looking at, bastard," he sneers at Don John.

"A drowned rat."

Claudio gnashes his teeth, looking as if he might take a swing at Don John; the latter braces for the brawl. Don Pedro swoops in-between them, draping one of the picnic blankets around Claudio's shoulders.

"Come, good Claudio. I relieve you of your duty to me. Please return to the villa and get yourself dry. We shall toast to your heroism tonight."

"My prince," Claudio bows to Don Pedro, then stalks across to Hero, forcing a kiss upon her hand. "My lady, I am honoured I could serve you."

His lips are wet and cold like the rest of him and she fights a shiver. "Thank you, my lord."

For the second time that afternoon, Hero watches someone trek down the hillside and knows it is her fault. Glancing up, she catches Don John's gaze. His face is as unreadable as ever, but she remembers Claudio's warnings: "He is against you, lady. He bid me dissuade the Prince from you."

She wrings her ribbon and tears her eyes from his, plonking herself between her father and Ursula. The general conversation moves on with little input required of her. It suits Hero well, her thoughts distracted. She rubs her bare wrist. There is much to reflect on.

Chapter Text

"I appear to have missed much excitement," Beatrice greets her cousin. "I thought I saw a storm approaching the villa, but it proved to be Count Claudio in a most bedraggled state. I wondered if there had been rain but all the thunder was in his face."

Hero settles on the balcony perch beside Beatrice. "He was kind enough to retrieve my ribbon when it was blown into the pond, but lost his footing and fell."

"How gallant. And what favour did you bestow in return for this noble feat?"

Hero picks at her skirt, looking out to the horizon. "I gave my thanks."

"Your thanks," Beatrice grins catlike. "Ooh, alas, poor Claudio, cold from more than his swim."

Hero pokes her arm. "You are not as amusing as you think you are."

"My, you are morose. You have been spending too much time with John the Bastard."

"Do not call him that."

Beatrice's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh ho, the mouse has claws. I thought you held the term in dear affection with how much you cherish your soulmark."

Hero tenses, hunching in on herself. "I have heard it spoken with enough poison this day. I will not have it from you as well."

Beatrice places a hand on her shoulder. "Perhaps you should better heed those warnings. You are so full of goodness, love. You believe everyone else must be as well. But that is not so. You consider those marks in a rose light but they are the stripes of a wasp, the speckles on a snake. He is dangerous, pet. And a liar. You should not place so much faith in him."

Hero jerks to her feet, whirling on her. "You are a fine one to talk. I saw Benedick's arm. Tell me, Lady Disdain, why you continue to rebuke him when you must recognise your own jibes upon your skin."

Beatrice stiffens and Hero can almost hear the metal clang, her visor falling into place. "I know not what you speak."

Her voice comes out clipped and forbidding. It only incenses Hero further.

"What? I protest, all-knowing Beatrice is at a loss? Who is the liar now?"

A muscle ticks in Beatrice's jaw and she rises. "I am honest enough not to burden Signior Benedick or myself with a romantic foolishness neither of us want. He has no more desire for a wife than I do a husband. Neither of us wish to be chained — least of all to each other. Therefore, leave the matter alone. It is not your affair."

Beatrice stalks past her, shoulders tense, and Hero feels a pang of sympathy. She gentles her voice, "Are you so certain of Benedick's feelings?"

Beatrice snorts, standing still. "He leaves little doubt."

"And you leave little room for love." Hero shuffles towards her motionless cousin. "You have such a large heart, Beatrice. Yet you have closed it to all but your kin. You besiege Signior Benedick with barbs, but if you show him some softness, you may find a devotion as fierce as your own. You deserve the world, Beatrice. Why will you not let it in?

Beatrice is silent. Outside, there are the shouts of men and women going about their business, someone humming down below, two dogs bark at one another, the wind ruffling the trees.

When Beatrice speaks her voice is the prick of a needle. "You cradle these naïve fantasies about fate and soulmates, but that is a dream you have spun yourself to better swallow the lie that happiness is found through the slights on your skin." She turns on Hero. "Have you no mind of your own? Are you so weak-willed you cannot even love for yourself? You must be told who as well?" She lifts her chin. "No marks will decide my fate. I am bound to no man."

With this pronouncement, she strides from Hero, her head high and her golden curls bouncing.

Hero presses a hand to her breast and slumps onto the bench. That did not go well.

:-x-:

John strides through the garden, no aim in mind. Or so he tells himself. Hearing a familiar voice, he halts.

"...I should not have pushed her… but she should not have been so unkind…"

John follows the voice, rounding the hedge. Hero kneels beside a bed of lilies.

"...I am not weak-willed… this is my choice… he is my choice…" She does not appear to notice his approach, murmuring to the flowers. "...you would like him… perhaps not at first… but there is more to him than he shows… I know there is…"

She sighs and cuts several of the stems, laying them in her arms. She rises, white skirts swishing around her calves. When she sees him standing there, she freezes.

"John…" she lurches into a curtsey, "My lord."

"Lady Hero," his mouth curves around the name, "Pardon my interruption."

"Oh, no, you are not interrupting."

He arches his brows and glances at the lilies. When he returns his gaze to her face he sees her cheeks are flushed.

"I was… merely spe-speaking to the… the uhh… flowers."

He relaxes his posture, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Then, this once, I may prove the better conversationalist."

Her eyes light, smile unfurling. "Do you compete? I did not think you were one for flowered speeches, my lord."

"I am not." He turns his head. "If that is your desire, you must look elsewhere."

She steps forward. "I would take an honest word over a sweet one."

A wry reply coils on his tongue, but he looks at her kind face, and swallows it. "With you, lady, all honest words must be sweet."

She preens, mirth twinkling in her gaze. "Now you flatter me. But an honest person would call me strange for conversing with plants."

John thinks she is strange for a number of reasons but he will not tell her so. "I would prefer the plants to many of the people I have been obliged to converse with over the years."

Hero's smile quirks, even as she casts it to the ground, cradling the lilies in her arms. "I speak to the flowers, but it is my mother I address my words to." Her eyes meet his. "Is not that strange?"

The words catch in his chest and he remembers that she too knows the loss of a mother.

"No," the sound draws from deep within his throat, "Not so strange."

Her eyes widen, and she stares at him as no one has before. Then she smiles and something cracks within him, ice melting under sun.

"I am to the mausoleum, to lay these flowers at my mother's grave…" she trails off and he does not think he imagines the question in her eyes.

"...may I walk with you?" He murmurs, half hoping she won't hear.

But she brightens and nods. "Please."

So John follows at her side. Despite his earlier remark, he remains silent, his mouth cloyed with sap. It chafes to think he is no better conversationalist than a plant, but if Hero is displeased, it does not show in her contented expression.

She leads him to the stone building where the family rest their dead. His flesh prickles at the nearness to death. She pauses before the locked gates, offering one of the lilies to him. He looks at it, perplexed, and her smile becomes uncertain.

"For your own."

His fingers curl around the stem, brushing her hand. He might flatter himself with the inhale of her breath, but her fingers linger a beat longer before she pulls them back.

Hero sinks to the floor, spreading the lilies, and clasping her hands in prayer, her eyes close. She mumbles under her breath, a soft susurrus. There is something almost sacrilegious about watching her in this private moment, lost in prayer. But John is a blasphemer by birth; he admires those delicate features, the fan of her lashes, the glow of her cheeks, the curve of her chin, the cream of her neck, the ripple of sable curls which his fingers itch to touch.

He understands why Claudio is so enchanted, but not how he was convinced to give her up. Even the will of the Prince could not make John stand down. But that is another mark where he and Claudio differ.

Hero's lashes flutter. Not wanting to be caught, John drops to a kneel, the lily stem clenched in his hand. He is not a religious man. There is little to be said between God and him. John is a bastard. He was destined for the fire pits long before he added treason to his crimes.

Nevertheless, Hero's behaviour has John thinking of his own mother. He usually avoids those memories, like a thorn-briar through his chest. She would snort at the idea of him communing with God on her behalf and that is enough to loosen his tongue, offering up a few words to the woman who departed this world long ago, of whose choices he still bears the brunt.

What would she make of the man her darling boy has become? Of the frost in the eyes which once shined? Of the blood on those hands that she used to wash clean?

Would she laugh, accusing him of getting into mischief again? Would she shun him like the rest of the world?

Or brush back his hair once more, a sad look about her, like she always knew this would be his fate?

"John…" the wisp of fingertips across his shoulders.

His lids snap open, meeting Hero's concerned gaze. His eyes sting and he lurches from her, turning his back.

"John…" The wild animal inside him snarls, baring bloodied fangs. He spins, intent to gorge out her throat and — freezes at her soft expression. "Thank you for accompanying me."

The ire snuffs out of him, a hollow shame settling in his stomach. He gives a curt nod.

Hero hesitates, asking with care, "You lost your mother as well?"

John grinds his jaw, unable to hold her gaze, so kind and gentle. Normally, he would savage anyone who dared mention his mother. But those were taunts. John does not have to be standing outside a tomb to recognise Hero's inquiry comes from a shared loss.

He nods again and the thought flashes through his mind: What would his mother think of Hero?

"She must have been beautiful…"

The comment makes him pause. "How do you conclude that?"

His mother was beautiful. She bewitched a prince, after all. But he does not see how Hero would know. No one at court who spoke of his mother did so kindly and there are no portraits of her.

When he looks at Hero, she appears flustered, fiddling with the ribbon around her wrist. "Only that — only that you must — must share a likeness."

His spine straightens. Distantly, he can hear his mother cackling. From anyone else he would suspect mockery, but not from Hero.

"I... do share her likeness…" he answers slowly, "But also much of my father's."

Too much to refute.

"I am told I resemble my father greatly."

He can see from her shyness, she too is uncertain of the complement.

"No worse for it."

He cringes at the poor words but Hero smiles. "Come, this is too melancholy a place for conversation. I come here when my heart is heavy but no longer is it so."

John follows her from the mausoleum, leaving the dead behind. His strides are languid, keeping pace with hers.

"Was... your heart heavy?"

He would not appreciate the question himself, but he is a hypocrite, and Hero is far more open than he given how she answers without hesitation.

"I quarrelled with Beatrice."

His eyebrows jump. Beatrice has made a proud show of her wit, clashing with anyone foolish enough to indulge her (usually Benedick), but it is plain she adores her cousin. John wonders what could spur the lioness to turn on the lamb.

"I am sorry."

(How rare those words leave his lips.)

Hero gives a rueful smile, "I vexed her and pried where I was unwelcome."

"You disagreed with her. Good."

Her gaze whips to his own. John holds it.

"Whatever you said, I am certain it was fair. You would not have spoken in spite."

The corners of her lips rise. "You give me much credit. I am not all virtue."

"No? I struggle to believe that."

"Ah, but then I must be a liar and, thus, sir, my argument is won." She smiles, gliding in sideways steps as she faces him.

He huffs, amused. "I concede. I understand now why your cousin was vexed for she must have been discomfited to face a wit that could challenge her own."

Hero stalls. "I am no wit."

"You are not loud about it. But noise is no mark of intelligence."

She shakes her head, mouth twisting wryly. "You are generous. But I know next to Beatrice I seem… dim."

John frowns. "Hero, look at me. I do not give out false praise. Your mind is equal to hers, but you are more… sympathetic."

She shuffles her feet. "I am meek, you mean."

"You are bolder than you are credited. A meek individual would not approach a renowned villain."

Hero's face ripples, a touch of sadness in the sweep of her lashes. "That is their loss."

They stare at one another. Her curls flutter in the breeze and he has the curious urge to catch one and wind it round his finger. She wets her lips; John tracks the motion, leaning close. She sways towards him, eyelids slipping shut.

Laughter from nearby shatters the stillness and John slams back to their surroundings, out in the open garden. He clears his throat and retreats to a proper distance.

"I am certain you and Beatrice will soon reconcile. If my brother can forgive me…"

Somehow, he manages these words without their usual bitter taint. Hero is looking at him and he is conscious of what she sees. Does she know the ink black hatred that lurks in him, feeds of his rancour, the beast which prowls under his skin?

"Thank you, John," she says at last, impossibly tender.

Pins and needles shiver up his arms.

Despite her denial, John knows Hero has more virtue than anyone he has met. He had not believed such genuine goodness existed in the world, but there she goes, surprising him again, robbing him of breath.

He should keep his distance. He does not understand her fixation with him, but he knows the closer she becomes, the greater the risk of him doing her harm. Fire allures but burns to touch, whether intended or not. Her reputation could be injured from mere association with the bastard traitor. So why can he not leave her alone?

There comes the call for supper. Hero gives him a shy look and he is offering her his arm before he can think better. She smiles, her warmth spreading through him in sunlight plumes, and, all at once, John knows he is doomed.

:-x-:

Beatrice does not speak to Hero at supper, instead conversing loudly with Don Pedro, who looks pleased if slightly bemused. She ignores Benedick's attempts to goad her, even when he is shouting across the table. The discomfort this causes is mediated by Antonio bellowing youthful anecdotes that have Leonato hiding his face and their guests chuckling.

Hero sneaks glances at John and, more often than not, finds he is looking back. Her heart skips a beat as they share a smile. She remembers, insides fizzing, how he praised her wit and called her bold, and makes an effort to engage in the discussion.

Claudio and Benedick are ribbed over their dips in the pond. Benedick takes it with better humour than Claudio, more accustomed to being the butt of the joke; but though both are polite, it is plain neither are as amused as their audience.

Antonio reminisces about his own days paddling in the lake with his brother before moving on to his nieces'. Hero flushes and ducks her head when he reveals how she used to catch the frogs and kiss their crowns, expecting them to turn into princes. When she dares to look up, John is smirking at her, his eyes glittering, and her stomach swoops.

"Will you walk with me, lady?"

The meal has ended and the guests have begun to shuffle from the room. Hero looks up in surprise at Don Pedro's request.

"The evening is pleasant and best spent in the company of one equally so."

For a moment, Hero forgets her manners and glances around. Her father is pretending not to eavesdrop, while he gushes to Ursula about something. Beatrice does not look at her as she strides from the room, Benedick hastening after. John is watching her, even as Borachio crows in his ear. Hero feels the heat of his gaze, two simmering coals.

There is only one answer for a prince.

She smiles, "I would be delighted, my lord."

Don Pedro grins and leads her outside.

Chapter Text

Hero's heart patters a skittish beat as she walks with Don Pedro through the hedgerows. She likes the Prince; he is affable and has treated her with kindness. But she is concerned this is another attempt to press Claudio's suit.

She hoped the matter was closed, as Claudio has made little effort himself to win her favour. He keeps at a solemn distance and whenever they speak his answers are brusque. The only passion she has glimpsed in him is his disdain for John. She does not know if he is shy or disinterested, but he watches her like a hawk does a mouse. It makes her skin prickle and she avoids meeting his gaze.

"Your cousin is a most pleasant-spirited lady," Don Pedro says, and Hero's thoughts stumble.

Beatrice. He has led her aside to speak of Beatrice?

Hope and confusion collide within her and she answers with care. "Truth, she treats life as a jest and laughs often. I think her veins must run with sunlight, for she brightens a room whenever she enters."

Don Pedro hums. "Indeed, she has dazzled a few into giving up their hearts. Yet she cannot endure to hear tell of a husband."

Hero pauses, wondering if the Prince is among those who have lost their hearts to her cousin. How would Beatrice react to such a thing?

"No, those who beseech her are liable to be burned," Hero cautions. "I have yet to meet a man who could bear the scorch of her wit."

"Have you not?" Don Pedro's eyes twinkle. "She were an excellent wife for Benedick."

"Ooohhh!" Hero expels a rush of air, then hurries to school her expression. "Think you so? I fear they are more for the battlefield than the altar."

The Prince's smile does not dim. "They are like children tugging on each other's curls. They would not vex one another so great, if they did not care as much for the other's opinion."

"My lord, our minds are alike. But what thought compelled you to speak of this with me in private?

"You are shrewd, lady," he grins, showing his teeth. "I intend to undertake one of Hercules' labours; which is, to bring Signior Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of affection, the one with the other. I would fain have it a match, and I doubt not but to fashion it, if you will but minister such assistance as I shall give you direction."

Hero claps her hands. "Oooh, an excellent undertaking! But no small feat. What is it you propose?"

Don Pedro leans in conspiratorially. "I will teach you how to humour your cousin, that she shall fall in love with Benedick. And I will so practise on Benedick that, in despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, he shall fall in love with Beatrice."

Hero hums. "It is deception then?"

"Does that weigh on your honest heart?"

Hero reflects on this. She feels a modicum of guilt for toying with her cousin and forcing the matter when Beatrice bid her leave it alone. But, she knows her cousin. She is stubborn to a fault. Unwilling to bend, even at a cost to herself. Hero loves Beatrice, and she wants to see her happy. Despite Beatrice's denial, Hero is certain Benedick is the key to this (soulmate or not).

"I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my cousin to a good husband," Hero answers, her resolve formed.

Don Pedro takes her hand and kisses it, a swift, familial gesture, squeezing her fingers. "If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer. His glory shall be ours! For we are the only love-gods."

Hero laughs, his jubilance contagious. "We should speak to my father. He will help."

"Ah, very wise, my dear Psyche." He twirls her, making her giggle. "Let us go in together, and I will tell you my drift."

:-x-:

Hero and Don Pedro return from their walk wearing giddy smiles, and are quick to usher Leonato inside for a private word. Claudio drains his cup and reaches for the bottle.

So, that is it. The offer has been made and the lady accepted. She belongs to another now, a prince.

Claudio refills his cup, blood-red wine sloshing over onto his sleeve. He gulps it down, the grape bitter on his tongue.

"Congratulations, sweet prince," Claudio sneers. "Though you won by false dice. I hope your prize be true. For I know too well how fickle is fair."

With this said, he pours himself another drink.

:-x-:

Hero lies in bed, hand cradled to her chest, replaying her moment in the garden with John. The memory of his words warms her through and she smiles into her pillow.

On the other side of the house, John does the same.

:-x-:

Pedro corners Claudio the next morning. "Good friend, I require your aid with a most noble venture."

Claudio had not attended breakfast, though in truth he was not much missed. He has withdrawn into himself of late, becoming sullen and reclusive. Benedick joked the other evening that he had mistaken Claudio's dour face for John the Bastard's. The quip had not gone over well and Pedro is not sure they have spoken to each other since. But Benedick and Claudio are good friends and Pedro knows the latter would move mountains to assist the former, even when the mountain in question is Benedick's own stubborn heart.

"What service can I render you, my lord?"

At this toneless response Pedro falters, his smile remaining in place.

Shadows bruise Claudio's eyes, his mouth a grim line. Pedro suspects the change in his mood is a result of the recent conflict. The youth performed valiantly on the field, vanquishing many foes. Although they were traitors, their deaths must weigh on his conscience. Pedro knows they do his own. But there is no place for such shades in sun-soaked Messina, with the constant flow of wine and cheer. They are here to relax and enjoy themselves, and Pedro's latest scheme is certain to bear forth a cornucopia of entertainment.

"We must draw a veil over our bullish friend Benedick's eyes, in order to open them to the wonder before him. I have a plan. We shall lead Benedick into believing Beatrice does pine for him. And for Beatrice, we shall have her thinking Benedick is in a consumption over her. Then, flattered by the other's favour, they shall look upon them in a warmer light and so form an attachment." He clasps Claudio's shoulder. "What say you? Will you take part in this trick?"

He expects Claudio to eagerly agree, but the youth surprises him again as the creases tighten around his mouth. "Love should not be won with tricks or disguises."

Wrong-footed, Pedro chuckles, "Come now, oh virtuous count, there is no malice in it. We may take some amusement, but by the end of it our dear friend shall be married and singing our thanks."

"You mean, you will not take the lady for yourself?"

Pedro draws back, the accusation shuddering through him like a physical blow. He shifts, uneased by the intensity of Claudio's gaze. It is true at one point he had been enamoured of Beatrice's merry heart and bold wit — but it was not to be. He had not realised his infatuation had been observed and answers with tact.

"Though my past actions discredit me, I do swear on Aragon's throne that I am sincere in my friendship and mean to honour Benedick and Lady Beatrice both."

Claudio regards him for a long moment, then his face falls and his shoulders sink. "Forgive me, my prince. I should not have spoken such. You are an honourable soul and will do right by your friends."

Pedro's head spins with the shift in the other man's moods. "Peace, Claudio. There is no harm. Then… will you assist?"

Claudio sucks in a deep breath and shakes his head. "I shall not reveal you, but nor will I aid you in deceiving another."

Disappointed, Pedro changes tack. "Lady Hero is excited for the plan; she is keen to assist her cousin to a good husband."

Claudio turns away, his jaw clenching. "How good you both are to share your happiness with others. I wish you joy."

He goes to leave but Pedro catches his arm, searching his features. "Are you… do you still covet the lady?"

Claudio's face turns pained and Pedro's concern spikes. "No… I… I accept her choice."

Pedro's brow furrows, mind racing. He had not realised Hero had rebuffed the count. She is such a sweet and sensible woman, he never anticipated her rejecting as excellent a man as Claudio. But it explains why the poor, downtrodden youth has been in such ill temper; he is nursing a broken heart.

"I am sorry. Truly, Claudio. You deserve better."

Claudio winces and extracts his arm. "Think no more of it, my lord. I do wish you every happiness. Sincerely."

Pedro frowns, confused by this speech, but nods his appreciation. Claudio is quick to depart.

Pedro stares after him in pensive reflection. He is sorry for his lovelorn friend; he truly thought Hero and Claudio a good match. If he succeeds in uniting Benedick and Beatrice, Pedro vows he will dedicate all his energies to finding Claudio the perfect wife.

:-x-:

Pedro has a notion to chastise Hero for turning down as worthy a suit as Claudio. He knows she harbours hopes for her soulmate, and seemed adamant that Claudio were not he — but to reject a noble man for a fantasy makes Pedro wonder if he misjudged her wisdom. Certainly, her father would not approve. Not that Pedro intends to taddle to Leonato. But he is disappointed in the lady.

He had been envisioning future celebrations in Aragon, with Claudio and Hero on one side of the banquet table, and Benedick and Beatrice on the other, while he sat at the head, the five friends laughing together. That image now fades and Pedro halts as he takes in the scene before him.

Hero twirls in a cotton dress, laughing along to something John has said. Pedro stares. His brother's focus is fixed on Hero, mouth crooked in what — unless Pedro is hallucinating — appears to be a genuine smile. Not one of those polite slithers, John sometimes musters, but an actual smile, full of mirth and admiration.

Pedro blinks, glancing around to see if anyone else is witness to this strange vision. But no, they are alone. He looks again; the pair orbit one another like the Sun and Earth, at ease in the other's company. Pedro has never seen his brother looking so relaxed… so happy.

He strides across to them. Pedro sees the instant John spies him, body tensing, his smile vanishing behind a steel front, and Pedro feels a twinge of regret amongst a coil of suspicion.

Hero, at least, is pleased to see him, calling out a cheerful "Good day, my lord."

"Good day, my lady. John." He nods to his brother, who returns the gesture with evident distaste — as if he does not owe his life to Pedro. "May I have a word with you, lady?"

"Of course. About Benedick and Beatrice?" Before Pedro can prevent her, she whirls to John. "We are plotting."

She announces this with such conspiratorial glee, cheeks dimpled in a smile, that Pedro has to assume no one has ever embroiled her in mischief before. And for good reason, as she has just revealed them to a man who has earned his reputation as untrustworthy.

"I hoped to keep the matter between us," Pedro murmurs, rubbing his forehead.

"Oh…" Hero deflates, glancing at John. "But what harm is there in John knowing? He may be able to help."

John preens, a glimmer of interest peaking through his aloof façade.

Pedro does not miss Hero's use of his first name. When did they become so familiar?

With deliberate nonchalance, John slides his hands into his pockets. "I do have experience in plotting."

Pedro grits his teeth. "Yes. I remember. Strangely, that does not entice me to trust you."

The corner of John's mouth quirks and Pedro is amazed at his gall. But also… this is the most animate he has seen his brother since battle, expressing emotions other than rage and hate. It reminds him of a different time, a headstrong youth.

"I trust John."

Pedro's gaze snaps to Hero. Her voice is soft but her words fork lightning. John stares at her too, his mask fracturing, and Pedro can almost hear the thunder through his brother's heart. Perhaps Benedick was onto something when he joked that Claudio and John have traded places. In this moment, Pedro swears his brother is in love with Hero.

John regains composure and fixes his brother with such an irritatingly smug look that Pedro wonders if he imagined the slip.

"We believe Beatrice and Benedick's sparring is a disguise for deeper tender feelings," Hero explains to John, who scoffs.

"That is no secret."

"Yes, but we will force those feelings to the surface by convincing them that one is enamoured of the other and suffering for their unrequited love. But here is the true cleverness—"

Hero's hands flitter as she outlines their plan to John. While she speaks, the two of them gravitate closer, leaving Pedro feeling like a chaperone, unsure if he should get in-between. He is agog at how comfortable they appear with one another. He has never seen John this at ease with anyone, or anyone this at ease with John. How has Pedro existed in such a dreamlike state these past weeks not to have recognised the fondness developing between the pair? That he should awaken and find the wind so changed?

Is John why Hero rejected Claudio?

The thought flashes across his mind, so amazing that Pedro loses track of the conversation — launched into a reality where his sour-tempered half-brother has charm — and only returns as Hero is concluding.

"—and, thus, our trap is sprung. What thinks you?" She looks at John, eager for his approval.

Pedro is assailed by the image of a lamb batting its lashes at the wolf. Should he intervene?

John tilts his head. "A cunning scheme."

"The credit goes to your brother, the plan is of his making."

John's face hardens, his gaze cutting to Pedro. "That does not surprise me. I remember the elaborate tricks he pulled when we were children."

John's venom is familiar and Pedro responds, his own voice tight, "All in good faith, brother. There was no malice in my mischief."

John's eyes are as dark as a starless night. "No?"

"Goodness, between the two of you, it is a miracle Aragon is still standing," Hero titters, voice a pitch higher than normal.

John releases a sharp exhale and unclenches his fits, shoulders sagging. When he speaks his voice is low and begrudging. "Perhaps that is why father kept us apart."

He glances at Pedro then and it frustrates the latter that he cannot discern the gleam in John's eyes. His brother is an infuriating enigma, he will never let Pedro know him, no matter how hard he tries.

"Benedick and Beatrice's stubborn wills shall be no match for your joint machinations," Hero chimes, her skirts swishing as she moves.

Pedro purses his lips, less certain of the merit in involving his brother.

As if reading his thoughts, John gives him an apathetic shrug. "They shall never suspect us of working together."

"That is true," Pedro admits. And it is not as if he has Claudio's help. He sighs. "At least if you are beside me, I can be assured you are not wreaking trouble elsewhere."

John returns a devilish grin and Pedro feels his hair turning grey. And yet — the smallest modicum of amusement stirs in his chest. If only all his brother's mischief was as harmless.

Pedro looks back to Hero, who is watching them with such open hope she should never play cards. "Sweet lady, what miracles you work. If my brother and I can be united in common cause, then I have no doubt Benedick and Beatrice shall be in love by tomorrow's dusk."

Hero throws out her arms, fingers weaving with the sunlight. "Huzzah!"

Pedro watches his brother's face transform in gentle awe. Ah, the corner of Pedro's mouth twitches, not such an enigma, after all.

Chapter Text

John has no stake in Benedick or Beatrice's happiness, but he agrees to help unite them. In part, because of how it makes his brother's eye twitch. But also because of the imploring look Hero gives him, her smile when he agrees.

On the day of their plot, John walks with Pedro through the garden. Ahead, they see Benedick darting into the hedges to avoid them.

Stopping beside the fountain, John projects his voice to be heard around the hedgerows. "5,000 dulcets, it is false."

"It is true. But do not take my word, here comes Signior Leonato. He shall tell you himself." Pedro calls out to the old man. "Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of today, that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick?"

There is a thud and a pained oomf!

John and Pedro exchange looks.

"Come, sir." John slinks to the old man's side. "My brother means to fool me, but I heard the lady swear off all men."

"She did indeed," Leonato replies. "Which makes it more the wonderful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviours seemed ever to abhor."

"Signior Benedick?" John shakes his head. "This must be a jest."

"By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it but that she loves him with an enraged affection. It is past the infinite of thought."

"Maybe she doth but counterfeit," Pedro proposes with much drama. It is good he has the throne, for he is not destined for the stage.

"Oh God, counterfeit!" Leonato feigns outrage, thrusting his hands in the air. He has no future in the theatre either. "There was never counterfeit of passion came so near the life of passion as she discovers it."

"Why, what effects of passion shows she?"

John spies a tuft of blond curls peeking from behind the hedges as Leonato falters.

"What effects, my lord?" The old man flounders, opening and closing his mouth. "You heard my daughter tell you how."

Pedro frowns. "How, I pray you?"

With sudden inspiration, Leonato grabs them both, drawing them closer and pretending to whisper in their ears.

Pedro's grin fills his face. "You amaze me!"

"Impossible," John drawls. "I do not believe a word of it."

His brother huffs. "You are named for the wrong disciple, John. Far more are you a Doubting Thomas."

"I do not believe the Bible was at the forefront of my mother's mind when she birthed me."

Pedro's smile slips and Leonato shifts, clearing his throat. "All of this comes from the mouth of my daughter. Do you doubt her word, my lord?"

John stiffens under Leonato's perceiving gaze. His brother arches a brow at him, the corner of his lips flickering. John bristles, not appreciating how the sport has turned on him.

"If there was a council I could trust…" he mutters, "...it would be hers."

Pedro's grin renews and John resists the urge to strike him. "Hath Beatrice made her affection known to Benedick?"

"No," Leonato answers, resuming their script, "and swears she never will. That's her torment. My daughter is sometimes afeared she will do a DESPERATE OUTRAGE to herself." He raises his voice on this last part, ensuring Benedick will hear.

John snorts. "I prized the lady to have more sense than to weep over the likes of Benedick. But then I prized her to have sense and that should be enough."

Pedro knocks his shoulder, his attention remaining on Leonato. "It were good that Benedick knew of it."

"You would be cruel to tell him. He would treat her heart as sport and use it as a punchline for his taunts." John catches his foot around Pedro's leg, causing his brother to stumble.

Pedro recovers his balance, glowering at John. "If he should, it were an alms to hang him." He walks across to the fountain, dipping his hand into the water. "She's an excellent, sweet lady. And, out of all suspicion, she is virtuous."

Without warning, Pedro whips his hand from the fountain, directing a spray of water at John.

Recovering from his shock, John wipes the droplets from his face and stalks towards his brother, voice low and ominous, "I had thought her wise."

Pedro darts from John, spraying more water as he goes. "In everything but in loving Benedick."

John reaches the fountain, countering his brother's attacks with splashes of his own.

Leonato backs away from them, voice wavering. "Oh, my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender — " he dodges an errant spray of water "— so, so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one that blood hath the victory. I am sorry for her."

"I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and hear what he will say," Pedro bids, even as he and John circle each other around the fountain.

"Hero thinks surely she will die," Leonato laments, keeping his distance. "For she says she will die if he love her not, and she will die ere she make her love known, and she will die if he woo her."

"Death is preferable to Benedick. I do not blame her." John flashes a grin at his brother, then leaps onto the fountain.

Pedro hastens a retreat as John begins kicking water towards him. "If she should — if she should make tender of her love, 'tis very possible he'll scorn — he'll scorn it. For the man, as you know, has a contemptible spirit."

He narrows his eyes at John on the word contemptible, shaking out his soaked sleeves.

John smirks. "Contemptible. Arrogant. And not as clever as he thinks himself."

There is a loud harrumph from behind the hedges. The three of them glance around. It is quickly followed by the poor imitation of a dying crow and they exchange knowing looks.

Pedro climbs into the fountain and John resumes kicking water at him. "I love Benedick well and I could wish he would modestly examine himself — " he advances on John, grabbing hold of him, " — to see how much he is unworthy — " the brothers wrestle with one another, " — of so good a lady."

John loses his footing and they both go crashing into the water.

"My lords — " Leonato hurries to the fountain's edge. He takes in the soaked pair, mirth crinkling his eyes, mouth twitching, "...will you walk? Dinner is ready."

Pedro and John clamber from the fountain, their clothes drenched and dripping.

"You will excuse us a moment, good sir," Pedro pants through a smile, "It appears my brother and I require a change of clothes."

"Of course, my lord." Leonato looks most entertained, as he walks with them back along the path, leaving the lurking Benedick to reflect on all they have said. As soon as they are far enough from the scene, he gushes with excitement, "Oh, well done, my lords. I wager my good leg, this fish is caught. He is certain to dote on Beatrice now."

"If he does not, then he is a greater fool than I suspected," John murmurs, wringing out his waistcoat as they go.

"Let the same net spread for her; and that must your daughter and her gentlewomen carry." Pedro's eyes light with mischief. "Let us send Beatrice to call him into dinner."

The three men snigger to themselves.

As they return to the villa, receiving odd looks along the way, they pass Hero and Ursula. The former beams brightly at them before a furrow appears in her brow, taking in the princes' sodden states. She gestures at John, mouthing her confusion. He shakes his head and kisses her hand, lips curving against her skin. She gifts him a flustered smile, her gaze remaining locked with his own even as she is led away by Ursula, the older woman smiling to herself.

John watches until she disappears round a hedge. An elbow to his side breaks his trance. He glares at his brother.

Pedro sports the biggest grin. John's fingers curl into a fist on reflex.

"What?"

Pedro shrugs, doing a worse impression of innocence than Benedick's bird. "Nothing. We should change garments, come"

John inhales through his nose and follows his brother inside.

:-x-:

Dressed in dry clothes, John enters the bustling dining room. A hand claps his shoulder.

"John." He blinks into his brother's smiling face. Not a hint of derision. "Come, our good hosts have saved us seats."

Pedro steers John around the table towards where Hero is seated with Leonato and Ursula, two vacant chairs between them.

Leonato breaks from the conversation to greet them. "My lords." Hero's head whips around, ebony curls flying. "Good to see you. Join us, please."

"It will be our pleasure," Pedro replies, settling in the chair next to Leonato, leaving John to seat himself beside Hero.

She smiles at him.

Around the room conversation stalls, heads turning to gawk at the scene, the traitor sitting with his brother and their hosts.

Pedro leans across to Hero, "How does the dove sing?"

"Most sweetly, my lord. She soars on love's wings."

"She's limed, I warrant you," Ursula grins.

"Excellent. Our pigeon too has taken the lure. Now the pieces are set and our cards are laid. We have but to wait and watch how the game unfolds." Pedro turns his attention ahead as Benedick strolls into the room, a daft grin on his face. "Here is one bird."

"And there is the other," Leonato delights as Beatrice enters, gliding to a chair.

Benedick and Beatrice glance at each other across the table then quickly look away. The conspirators titter to each other, earning confused looks from those seated nearest them.

"We must be careful not to reveal our hands," Pedro adds, composing himself. "We should behave as if nothing were amiss."

As one their little group straightens in their chairs, a synchronised movement which would affirm John's suspicions if he were not already in on the plot. He hides his amusement behind his cup.

Claudio is one of the last to arrive. As he spies them huddled together, his face hardens. John watches with interest as he stalks to the other side of the room, settling beside Benedick. John had almost forgotten about his feud with Claudio. It satisfies him to see the young upstart is still miserable. It is the least he deserves.

The food is served and John's attention is diverted from Claudio, surprised when his companions invite him into their conversation. Questions are directed to him and there appears to be genuine interest in his response. No one looks frustrated or bored when he requires a moment to compose his words. Next to him, Hero's eyes glow, her smile returning to him no matter who is speaking. His words which scratch like gravel in his throat, flow with the purewater stream of her voice.

Pedro laughs, oozing charm and enchanting his listeners as usual. What is not usual is his treatment of John, chuckling and clapping his shoulder as if he were a brother instead of a burden. For once, John does not feel like an unwelcome phantom, haunting the room, tolerated only because of his kin. For once, he is a normal guest; not a traitor, not a bastard.

His knuckles are bone white around his knife and he stares at his reflection in the blade. His image is unchanged. If he cuts himself, will his blood run clean?

Leonato scrapes back his chair and John returns to the present. "Friends, once is not enough to celebrate the joy of your stay. Therefore, tonight we shall have a second rejoicing. I will be hosting another revel!"

The announcement is met with applause and people turn to their neighbours, chattering excitedly. Next to him, Pedro praises Leonato for lavishing his guests. The room narrows, overcrowded, too warm, the air choked with voices.

John staggers from the table and slips out the room.

:-x-:

Pedro frowns as John leaves but does not break from Leonato.

"No, no, my prince," their host gushes, "You owe me no debt. Your friendship is more than wealth enough."

"You are too generous, my friend. Pray, there must be some favour I can grant you to even our scales."

"If you lead my niece to a husband, my lord, then I could live forever and still be in your debt." Leonato's eyes gleam. "Although, if you could make my daughter an honourable match as well…"

"No fear, good Leonato," Pedro watches as Hero disappears after his brother, "I believe a double wedding is not far in the future."

:-x-:

Gravel crunches under John's boots as he hastens down the track, eager to be free of everyone and their false cheer. Or is it John who is false? Thinking he can sit among them, drink their wine, share their jokes. Maybe for a moment they forgot what he is. Maybe he forgot too. But their memories will soon return and then their smiles will turn, their sensibilities repulsed, and he will be a bastard once again.

"I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in his grace."

Is that not what he told Conrade? So how is John here, acting like his brother's tamed mutt, when they celebrate his defeat, the slaughter of his men?

The answer comes in tangerine tones, "John?"

He keeps his gaze ahead and walks on. Hero calls his name again, her footsteps hurrying down the path, catching up with his lengthy strides.

"John?"

Despite his will, his legs slow, and she swoops in front of him, her sleeves flapping like butterfly wings. She smiles at him. She always smiles at him.

"How went this morning? Did you enjoy your spell as Cupid?"

"Why ask? You have it all from Pedro."

Her face flickers, turning shy. "I… yes… but I would like to hear it from you."

"For what purpose?"

"Because…" she shifts, "...your thoughts interest me."

"I do not understand your game."

She blinks her dark lashes. "I am not playing a game…"

He shakes his head and carries on forward.

She follows, voice pitched in concern. "John, is all well? You look…"

She does not finish, but he can guess — grim, sullen, sinister — he has heard it all before. He takes a breath. Strange to think less than an hour ago he was light with mirth. How quickly humour spoils. Not because of anything said or done, but because he remembered his place. And it is not with them.

Fingers brush his sleeve and his arm flares like the touch of poison ivy. He meets Hero's gaze; ochre suns flame into green sea. She is so good, so gentle. His place is not with her. But God does he wish it could be.

"I am well." He removes her hand, lowering it to her side. "I require solitude… to think."

"I hope your thoughts are not heavy. I could lighten the burden if you would share the load." She leans towards him, her breath tickling his chin. "You did me a kindness the other day. Allow me to return the favour, please."

Lord, John thought he knew wanting, but never has he wanted like this. He is an ablaze with a fervid need — not for passion or flesh, but her words, her laughter, the slightest touch between them, her smile for him alone. He wants her. To keep her. Not as a possession, but — but as herself. Hero.

And…? What can he offer her, as bastard and traitor? If he reaches out, lets the fire leap from his fingers to her own, she too will ignite, a burning star, ward against the shadows, together they will dance in golden flames, until all that remains are their blackened husks…

He will not allow it. Not her. Let him be scorched to cinders, he built his own pyre. But he will not stain her with his ashes. Let her lungs remain clear of his smoke.

"Thank you. But I will not trouble you."

"It is no trouble," she rushes, voice chiming like glass. She looks down where his hand still cradles her own.

He lets go, clasping his fist to his side. "I prefer to be alone."

She purses her lips, considering him. "Is that true?"

John's breath stills… before expelling from his chest, a chill creeping under his shirt despite the sun's glare. "Yes."

Her face falls and he watches as she wets her lips, deepening them to glistening scarlet.

"Oh… then I will not intrude." Her fingers skitter across her wrist, slipping under the ribbon tied there. "Will I see you at the revel tonight?"

He is silent, cocking his head as he regards her. At last, he gives a brusque nod.

She smiles, frail but sincere. "Then… until tonight."

"My lady," he murmurs, and then, because he cannot help himself, he snatches her hand and crushes his mouth to her wrist bone.

He feels a tremor pass through her, hears the hitch in her breath. He lingers over her hand, the speckles on her skin, the faint blue of her veins. He rubs his thumb across the ribbon he has guessed conceals a soulmark. What word does it hide? What manner of person is so blessed as to share their soul with a saint?

(Already John despises them. What is one more person to hate?)

He releases her, stepping back. Hero sways forward, before catching herself. She gives him one last look, a question in her gaze he does not know how to answer, and then she leaves. He watches her float back to the villa like a dandelion seed caught in the wind.

John's ribs buckle in on themselves, a hollow gnawing in his chest. And, he wishes, he wishes…

:-x-:

Alone in her bedchamber, skirts ruched to her waist, Hero traces the dark letters that ring her thighs. John's coldness had thrown her off-course, a skiff left to navigate the harsh tides. She thinks she understands… a man with marks like these… his walls will be high… his armour near impenetrable.

She longs to talk to him about their bond, to tell him how little and how much his marks mean to her. That he is wanted, that his presence stirs in her an irrepressible happiness, an urge to be ever nearer. How she relishes their moments together. How he makes her bolder. She wants him to understand how much he means to her. But how does she tell him when his guard is up? When he goes cold without cause and shuts her out.

It would be disheartening if her flesh were not riddled in cruelties. If she had not heard the taunts others hurled at him. Her fingers itch to comb back his hair and smoothe the tension from his jaw. Words of devotion swelling in her throat, her heart straining to be heard. Only good sense keeps her from blurting out her desperate confession and crushing the fragile tenderness budding between them before it can reach its bloom. But, oh, how she wishes she could hold him. How she wishes he would hold her.

Hero cradles her wrist, fingers feathering across the bare letters, and she shudders, remembering the warm press of John's thumb…

Beatrice enters and Hero hastens to cover herself, drawing her legs beneath her dress and pressing her hand into her skirt folds.

"Hello," she greets timidly. They have spoken little since their disagreement.

"Hero…" Beatrice begins then cuts off.

Hero recognises this hesitant version of her otherwise headstrong cousin. Beatrice only behaves like this when she realises she is at fault and is too proud to admit it.

Hero rises from the bed. "Will you help style my hair for the revel tonight?"

Beatrice visibly relaxes. "Of course, dove."

Hero sits on the stool before her dressing table, watching as Beatrice appears behind her in the mirror. She removes the pins from Hero's locks, causing them to cascade around her face.

"Have you spoken with Benedick?"

Hero restrains a smile, composing her features in a guileless mask. "Not this day, but I expect we shall meet at the revel tonight." Beatrice is quiet, her gaze distant, and Hero prompts her back to the present. "Why do you ask?"

Beatrice fiddles with the end's of Hero's curls, sliding them between her fingers. "He was acting strange… when I called him in for dinner."

"Oh?" Hero bites her cheek. "Strange in what sense?"

Beatrice shakes her head. "I know not how to describe it."

Hero presses a hand to her heart. "Poor fellow. How he must suffer…"

Beatrice pitches forward, fingers tightening in Hero's hair. "What? What does he suffer?"

Hero bats at her cousin's hands. "It is I who suffers. Beatrice, please."

Beatrice retracts her hands, stroking her head apologetically. "Forgive me. Have I hurt you?"

"No fear." Hero shoots her a reassuring smile. "I do admire your forthright strength, dear Bea, but some things require a gentler touch."

Beatrice looks reflective and picks up the hairbrush, guiding it through Hero's thick tresses. Hero relaxes, remembering childhood games styling the other's hair — Hero struggling to tame Beatrice's tangled mane. She loves her like a sister and, although her stomach squirms with the guilt of lying to her, Hero is confident she is doing right by Beatrice, and this deception will lead to her greater happiness.

Nevertheless, it is difficult to maintain this resolve when Beatrice asks, a crack in her voice, "But Benedick… you say he suffers?"

"I should not have said so." Hero turns to her cousin, fixing her with a stern look. "Beatrice, you will not tease the poor man."

"No." Beatrice looks astonished — chagrined. "...no."

There is a pang in Hero's chest and she clasps her sister-cousin's hand. "I know, you are kinder than that."

Beatrice chews her bottom lip, "I was not kind to you earlier. When we — when I — I should not have said what I did. I was too proud and it was not true."

Hero releases a breath, warming Beatrice's hand with her own. "You did not mean your words to be so severe. But you did mean them."

Beatrice swallows hard. "I — " She bows her head, shame painting her features. "I am sorry."

Hero rises from her chair, sliding her hand to Beatrice's shoulder. "I know our views on soulmates — on love — differ. We are our own women and these are our own choices. I should not have criticised you any more than you should have me. I am sorry too."

"Oh, love," Beatrice bundles her into her arms. "I do not deserve someone as sweet as you. Please forgive your foul-tempered cousin. I have lofty ideas of my own wit, but I think you are the wiser of the both of us."

Hero burrows her face in her neck. "Oh, please, do not place me at such a great height. I shall only fall short of expectation. I have neither the speed of your tongue, nor your affinity for wordplay, nor the courage of your heart."

Beatrice draws back, her arms still warm around Hero. "Not all wit is wisdom and there is more courage in your heart than most men."

Hero gives a bashful smile. "John said something similar… he thinks I am bolder than I am credited."

"Ohh, John said so, did he?" Beatrice's smile turns sly and Hero's face heats. "For a man of few words, he honours you with much." Hero ducks her head and Beatrice cups her cheeks, their eyes meeting. "And why would he not? You are lovely, cousin."

Hero turns her smile into Beatrice's palm, then draws back. "I know you believe I am only interested in him because of my soulmarks… and I own, without that hope I may not have mustered the courage to approach him…" she places her hand over her breast, skin warm under her touch, "...but he is more than the words on my skin. He is more to me. It is not about the marks anymore. It is him."

Beatrice regards her with a thoughtful look. "Does he know?"

"That we are soulmates? I do not believe so."

"That you are in love with him."

Hero inhales, glancing down. Her stomach tightens then releases in a fluttering swarm. Invisible wings tingle across her lips, smile unfurling. She squeezes her hands to her chest.

"Not yet. But soon… I will tell him soon."

Creases pinch around Beatrice's mouth but are quick to clear, spreading in a smile. She strokes Hero's curls. "I hope you get your heart's desire, Hero. You deserve no less."

Hero wraps her arms around Beatrice. "I hope you find yours too, cousin, sister."

Beatrice releases a muffled whimper into Hero's shoulder and holds her close.

When they pull apart, Hero offers out the brush. "Please, will you finish my hair?"

Beatrice rubs her eye and grins. "My, my, this bolder Hero is demanding." She accepts the brush. "Anything for you, love."

Hero smiles, shifting in her chair. Hope for tonight — for John, for Beatrice, for Benedick — beats in her chest. All is right, she assures herself. All will be well.

Chapter Text

John is slouched in a chair, inside his quarters, meditating on the events of the day, of the past weeks. His suffocating jacket has been cast aside, his chafing collar loosened. He has found himself where he never expected to be, without schemes, without understanding, without a notion how to go on, his mind a tangle of sable curls and rose-lip smiles.

"Oh ho, Conrade, did you ever see a more miserable sight?" John grits his teeth as Borachio enters with Conrade. "Methinks our lord has been caught in his own snare. Oh what a thing it is for the doe to lead the hunter on a chase."

"What nonsense do you spout now, Borachio?" John growls, lifting his head from his hands.

Borachio advances on him with a loathsome grin, "You, my lord. You show all the sufferings of a man in love."

John sneers, "Maggots have eaten your brain."

Borachio shrugs, "Perhaps. But I am not such a simpleton that I do not recognise heartsickness when it is plain before me. You, my lord, are pining. And for who? Leonato's daughter, the most admired Hero."

John's chest seizes. He covers his reaction with a scoff. "You have indulged too much in the wine. You are seeing what is not there."

Borachio widens his cattish grin and turns to Conrade, who has been watching the exchange with silent caution. "I do not understand the fixation myself. She is a handsome chick, I give her that. But slim, little to hold onto, and not much of a voice. But then, the quiet ones usually scream loudest— aghh!"

John slams Borachio into the wall, his voice a hiss, "Do. Not. Speak. Of. Her."

Borachio leers, "All riled up over a mouse."

"The only vermin here is you."

"And you claim you are not in love with her."

John stiffens, retracting his arm. Freed, Borachio smooths his shirt.

At his nonchalance, John fumes, "You take too many liberties."

Borachio gives a crooked smile, "You do not take enough. The lady dotes on you. She is yours for the taking. Yet here you skulk like a mutt barred without supper. And why, when you could easily sate that hunger? Enjoy what is freely given. You do not have to marry the lady."

John seizes Borachio's jaw, knuckles white. "If you cannot hold your tongue, I shall carve it from your mouth." Unable to form words, Borachio nods. John scowls and shoves him away. "Go."

Conrade grabs Borachio's shoulder, hauling him from the room. "We shall leave you to prepare for tonight, my lord."

John does not respond, turning his back on them as he attempts to calm his breathing.

"If only you would exert such passions upon Hero!" Borachio taunts as Conrade drags him out, "If you are not careful, she shall seek satisfaction elsewhere!"

John snatches a candlestick from the table and hurls it, "OUT!"

It hits the doorpost, clattering to the floor. Conrade and Borachio are already gone.

John slams his fist on the table, seething. The wood shudders, pain reverberating through his arm. He curses, cradling his hand, and sinks back into the chair, head hung.

Shit.

Shit.

:-x-:

John was not at supper and Hero has yet to spot him amongst the crowd. The last trails of crimson sun are fading into an indigo gloaming; the revellers lit in amber torchlight. Hero tries to focus on whatever the gentleman before her is saying, but her gaze flits around the garden, searching for her dour-faced prince.

With a start, she realises the man in front of her has gone quiet and is now staring at her expectantly. He must have asked a question that she did not hear. She doesn't even know his name.

"Pardon me, sir. My thoughts were stolen by the music."

His frown deepens. "I understand now why your cousin's mind is so praised and your own unremarked."

Hero recoils, stung. Her hand twists in her sleeve. Bastard, stupid, mumbling, imbecile…

"Excuse me," her voice cuts through the air, summoning her best impression of Beatrice, "My mind requires stimulation. It is clear I shall not find that here."

She leaves him spluttering and wanders over to the refreshments table, draining a full goblet of wine. She pours another and scans the crowd for John. If he is in attendance, he is nowhere in sight.

"Here is my lovely accomplice!" Don Pedro springs upon her with a dazzling grin. He raises a cup from the table. "A toast to the archers! Our arrows struck true. Love may be blind, but we certainly are not."

Hero giggles and clinks her cup against his own. "To a good day's kill."

Don Pedro chuckles. "My how bloodthirsty you have become. No, do not be shy, it is an attractive trait."

Hero flushes, giving a coy smile. "You are not intending to make sport of me, my lord."

He touches her arm. "My lady, you are truly a prize. But I would not risk the peace."

Hero finds this an odd comment, but she drains her cup, face warming with the wine.

Don Pedro leans forward conspiratorially, "What say you to a little more mischief?"

Hero smiles. "What does my lord have in mind?"

:-x-:

"Signior Benedick will you partner me for the dance? Your footwork has been much praised."

Benedick startles at her sudden appearance, but puffs his chest and offers Hero his arm with a smile. "It would be an honour, my lady."

They join the line of dancers and have just taken their positions when Don Pedro struts over with Beatrice on his arm.

"Signior Benedick, Lady Hero, I see you too have dared to brave the fray."

Benedick's voice goes shrill, "Lady Beatrice."

Beatrice stands as stiff as a rod. "Signior Benedick."

They stare at each other, for once their wits overcome, not a barb passing between them. Don Pedro winks at Hero.

Hero smiles, unable to contain her glee. "Oh, my prince, leave your battle-speak behind. Tonight is for celebrating! What better way than to dance!"

Don Pedro grins. The musicians strike up and the dance begins.

Despite Hero's flattery, Benedick is a poor partner, his attention fixed on her cousin. She might be offended, if this were not her exact aim. Beatrice is as distracted as he, her gaze flitting to Benedick and away again. The dance has them circle their neighbour's partner; as they glide around each other, Benedick and Beatrice's eyes lock, caught in a hypnotic trance. Hero and Don Pedro exchange smiles.

As the first dance comes to a close, Don Pedro snatches Hero's hand, twirling her off to the side, a new jaunt beginning. "Change partners!"

Hero stumbles, giggling, and catches herself on his shoulder, adjusting her footing to match his lead. Behind them, she sees Benedick bow to Beatrice and offer her his hand. Beatrice wavers for a moment, before placing her hand in his and Benedick draws her into his arms.

Hero squeaks, thumping Don Pedro's shoulder in excitement.

He spins her, chuckling. "Cupid's glory is ours. We are the only love gods."

They laugh together, whirling through the night, drunk on their success (and perhaps a little of the wine too). Around them, the torches blur in a golden haze. Don Pedro sings praises upon them, his smooth cadence intertwining with the song, emboldening Hero, building cathedrals in her heart. He twirls her, causing her feet to lift from the ground, no longer earth-bound. She runs her fingers through the heavens, a tingling across her skin, gilding her in stardust. The world is theirs to shape. The possibilities are infinite! They are the love gods! All is divine!

The music reaches its crescendo and Hero collapses against Don Pedro, breathless with laughter.

He grins, panting. "Come, come… let us gain refreshment. There must be nectar for the gods!"

Hero whoops and Don Pedro pulls her to the wine table. As they drink, others wander across to join them. Don Pedro regales them with lavish tales and amusing stories. A crowd soon forms around them, bodies pressing against Hero, pushing to be nearer the Prince, like the planets, huddling around his magnificent sun. Hero titters along to a joke and chances a glance to the side.

There, she sees him, standing beside a torch, haloed in flame.

"John!" She breaks from the circle, bounding across the lawn, a smile splitting her face. "John! John! You have been hiding! I was looking for you."

His expression is impassive as usual; he glances in the direction of Don Pedro and his admirers. "You were occupied when I arrived."

Hero's smile strikes upon his stone exterior as if to spark some humour in him. "I was dancing. Oh, will you dance with me, John? Please."

He searches her face. "Are your feet not tired?"

Hero throws up her arms and twirls, her dress lifting around her. "I could dance all night! Oh say you'll be my partner, please John, please!"

"If that is… what you wish."

She beams, clasping his hands and tugging him towards the dancing. The music has settled into a gentle pace. Hero's breath hitches as John's hand finds her waist; she exhales, sinking into his touch. Overhead, the stars are steady. There is a whole universe in John's eyes.

"I saw your mischief earlier with Benedick and Beatrice, trading partners. Have you no qualms meddling in your cousin's affairs?" His voice is amused, without judgement.

Hero bites her lip, spinning under his arm. "Do not mistake my intentions. I have no wish to misuse Beatrice. Only to guide her to greater happiness."

He arches an eyebrow. "Greater happiness in the form of Benedick the Blabbermouth?"

Hero glances towards the aforementioned couple, conversing with one another as if no one else in the world existed. She smiles, warmth flourishing through her, and she leans into him. "They are made for each other."

John is quiet.

She whirls back to him. "Speaking of mischief, I charge you, sir."

The corner of his mouth flickers, "Oh?"

"I have it from Count Claudio that you swore to him Don Pedro is enamoured of me. But the Prince has expressed his intentions to the reverse."

John's expression turns guarded. "You asked him?"

Hero thumbs the collar of his waistcoat. "Fear not, I have mentioned neither you nor Claudio. But I would like the truth. Why did you lie to Claudio?"

Shadows coil across his face, his words come cold and precise, like the kiss of a knife. "To sow discord between my brother and his new favourite. It was Claudio who engineered my defeat; I sought to repay him for the blow. I knew he desired you and that my overzealous brother meant to woo you in his stead. It was easy to twist the situation to my advantage. I have enjoyed watching the Count sink into his misery, festering with the perceived betrayal. It has been a rare delight."

Hero stares. It is the first time she has heard him speak with such malice and it makes her shiver. "My, how honest you are."

He lifts his chin, unrepentant. "I am a plain-dealing villain."

"And… was revenge your only motive?"

"What else?"

Her gaze lowers to his shoulder, where her fingers crinkle in his shirt. They dance on, swaying to the music. They are closer than they should be, John's breath tickling the strands of her hair.

"Now you understand the depth of my wickedness. Does it repulse you?" His eyes are flint, aglow with relish and desperation.

"John…" Hero frowns. "That is a child's trick. If I accepted Claudio's suit, the ruse would be undone. It is because I did not, that Claudio still harbours under a misconception." She wonders if she should alert Don Pedro. But that would mean exposing John and she does not want him punished. "One conversation with the Prince should resolve the tension. All you have done is spared me from refusing the Count. Which… I fear… I could not have accomplished on my own. It is fortunate he did not beseech my father."

"You… reject his suit?" John asks, an unnamed emotion spilling across his features. "You… do not favour him?"

Her fingers flex in his own and she smooths her hand down his shoulder to the crook of his arm. "I think it is plain who I favour."

John stares at her like she is a riddle. Which is absurd, as Hero is certain her thoughts are written all over her face.

Wine hums, euphonious, through her veins and she rocks towards him, magnetised. "John…"

He baulks, face shuttering, and releases her. "I cannot — goodnight, my lady."

He pivots on his heel, disappearing into the writhing throng.

Hero is left standing in shock. Her fingers open and close, rising to brush her left breast.

She heaves a breath. Then, she pursues.

:-x-:

John stalks from the revel, back to the villa. He never should have attended. He should have kept his distance from Hero and not risen to Borachio's bait. He cannot forget the weight of her in his arms, the heat of her lingering…

He passes a huddle of soldiers, sprawled out on the steps, singing drunkenly to themselves. One of them spots him and calls out, "Hey, it's John the Bastard!"

"Ay! It's the mutt!"

"Hey! Hey, bastard! Come here!"

"Heel dog! Heel!"

The men howl with laughter, barking and whistling. John grinds his jaw and marches on. As satisfying as it would be to smash their faces in, the punishment would be his alone when Pedro found out.

He reaches the courtyard where the household first welcomed them, where he first saw Hero. He remembers how she held his gaze, gifting him with a genuine smile, even as everyone else pretended not to see him. From the beginning, she had him mystified. Now, he is entranced, unable to escape her lure.

(But he is the sea serpent, he will drag her under the waves, to the depths with him if she does not let go.)

The moon shines over the tranquil square, rippling upon the surface of the well. John splashes the cool water onto his face, hoping to clear his head.

"John…"

He freezes, thinking — hoping — he imagined the melodious voice. He turns and — there is Hero, a phantasm in white.

"Hero…" he rasps, "You should not have followed me."

She pouts those full lips of hers. "You left so abruptly. I was concerned."

She swishes towards him and John notices her motions lack their normal grace. He thrusts out his arms, preventing her from getting any nearer. "I am well. Leave me be. I wish to be alone."

She narrows her gaze. "You are lying." John stiffens and she wobbles closer. "Why are you lying?"

"Because. I am a liar. Why do you persist in seeking me out?"

Her fingers flutter to his face. "I care about you."

John squeezes his eyes shut, turning from her touch. "Then you are a liar too."

"I am not lying," her voice crackles, fervent with indignation. He opens his eyes, admiring the fierce expression which flames across her face before her features soften and she curls her fingers across his cheek. "John…"

He shudders.

She stares at him as if he is the most wonderful thing she has laid eyes on. "I feel fearless when I am with you. And more nervous than I have ever been. I want so much to be around you, to be near you, that my heart feels as if it will burst from my breast."

John holds himself stiff under her caress, breath caught in his chest. "What… what are you saying?"

She gazes up at him, stars catching in her eyes, "I love you."

John jerks backwards.

Hero advances with half-lidded lashes, stroking his beard, "I love you, John. I love you. "

"No." John restrains her hand, observing the flush in her cheeks, the sway to her movements, the faint slur about her voice. Cold spears through him. "You are drunk."

Hero wrinkles her nose. "I am not."

"Yes. You are."

It is obvious now he is aware of it.

But Hero is not defeated, surging forwards. "I love you."

John flinches. "STOP. Your head is not clear. You know not what you say."

"I know I love you. I have from the beginning."

John shakes his head. "You do not know me. What I am — Hero, I am not for you."

"Yes, you are. Yes, you are. Of course you are! We are soulmates!"

The ground fractures beneath John's feet and he plunges through the ice. When he emerges from the black, drenched to the bone, Hero is still staring at him, eyes wide and hopeful.

His teeth ache. "Wh…what?"

"We are soulmates. I have your words and you have mine." She is smiling like this is the best news she could give.

John rocks on his heels, raising his hand to his brow, his head a maelstrom. He thrashes against a sweeping current, salt burning through his lungs as a barrage of waves try to drag him under.

"H-How?"

Nausea roils through him, imagining what venom mars her skin.

"My marks — it makes sense they are yours. And — and I saw some words on your—" she gestures "—back, that first day, when — when I came to your — and you were — you were shirtless. I knew they were mine. I recognised them."

She takes his hand, guiding it to her breast — he should not allow this — as she draws down the collar of her dress, his fingers press into warm, supple flesh — he should stop this —

He sees the dark mangle of letters across her otherwise pristine skin. Like a scar over her heart — Bastard.

His fingers graze the jagged script, careful, as if running them over a dagger's edge. Hero sighs. John shivers at the sound, muscles tensing, bile rising in his throat.

("Do you think she will want a filthy-blooded mongrel like you?")

"John…" she breathes, her voice a hymn, "...we are soulmates."

He stares at her. Illuminated in the celestial light of the moon, Hero's loveliness transcends this realm. At last, he understands.

He snatches back his hand. "This is why you persist. This is why you pursue me at every turn. Because you believe we are soulmates."

"We are soulmates." Hero frowns, straining forward on her tiptoes.

John places his hands on her shoulders, forcing her feet back on the ground. "And what does that signify? That you are stained with every terrible name I have earned myself? That we are memorandums of each other's pain? Is that your basis for romance? Bastard sullies your skin so I am your true love?"

He scoffs on the words. His hand tangles in her hair, pulling her head to the side, exposing the cream of her neck. Hero gasps, eyelids flitting closed, but does not protest the rough treatment.

"You would let me touch you, tarnish you?" He drags his nose along the column of her throat, inhaling the sweet scent of her. His thumb presses just above her collarbone, her pulse quivering. "Do you know what I am? The wicked things I am capable of? You seek me out, pursue me to this dark, secluded place. Do you realise how dangerous I am? What I could do to you?" He scrapes his teeth along her neck. "You tempt the beast and expect it not to bite."

Hero whimpers, trembling beneath him. Heat pools in his gut. He gazes down at her, her face transformed, not in fear, but what he surely is mistaking as bliss.

"Hero… Hero…" he pants, transfixed, cupping her chin. "Do you understand how easily I could ruin you?"

"Ruin me," she breathes and it sounds like a prayer. John's pulse lodges in his throat like a shard of glass. Hero's eyes flutter open. "John… I trust you."

Those words — those impossible, disharmonious words stop his heart.

"No."

He staggers backwards. Hero stares at him, hurt and confused.

"No. I will not — No." John turns from her, unable to watch as her face crumples. He swallows around a lump of coal, ash searing his tongue. "You should rest. Sleep off the drink. Stay away from devils like me."

Her voice splinters, "I do not want to stay away…"

John turns, catching her hand before she can touch him. He bends, brushing his lips across her fingertips. His gaze meets hers; in the dark, her eyes burn like dying stars.

("She will hate you for tainting her with your twisted soul.")

He drops her hand. "I am sorry."

For the second time that night, he leaves her standing there.

This, he will regret. He does not know how much.

Chapter Text

The sound of John's fading footsteps ring hollow through Hero's ribcage. She stands motionless, a chill creeping along her skin. In the distance there comes the warped echo of the celebrations continuing without them. Heat prickles behind her eyes as she draws a shaking breath. The night breeze stirs around her, tousling her curls. A cloud slinks over the moon, sheathing it in shadow.

Shivering, Hero stumbles forwards —

An iron hold closes around her arm and she careens into darkness. Her back crashes into stone. Her shriek is silenced as a hand clamps over her mouth.

"Vixen." Hero thrashes, pinned by a weight as hard and unforgiving as a tomb slab. Through the gloom, she discerns Claudio's face contorted above her in rage. "You beguile the Prince with your fair charms, then cuckold him with his bastard brother!"

Claudio crushes her into the wall, her skin scraping against stone, his grasp bruising. She smacks his arm with her free hand but he presses closer, her blows are ineffective. Her legs quake, unable to move.

"You deceiving minx. Is this the traitor's new scheme? You wed the Prince then your treacherous lover steals his throne? You loathsome Delilah!"

Claudio jerks her chin with such force her teeth rattle and she knocks her head. Violet bursts across her vision and her eyes sting. Her cries are smothered under Claudio's musky palm. This close, she can smell the wine thick upon him.

"Why, Hero?!" His voice comes agonised, the whites of his eyes shimmering in the dark. "You seemed to me as Dian in her orb. As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown. But you are more intemperate in your blood than Venus, or those pamper'd animals that rage in savage sensuality. You hide your fangs well, but the venom runs cold in your veins."

Hero shakes her head, sobbing.

"Do you deny it?" He tightens his hold around her arm, her fingers prickling from the blood-loss. "Oh shameless succubus. Oh wicked siren. Most foul, most fair. You would lure the good Prince to his destruction with your insidious charms."

Hero's wails are muffled, her heart wild in her chest, skin writhing. Tears stream down her face, trickling onto Claudio's hand. He wipes them aside, eyes glistening with tears of his own.

"I did think you the sweetest lady that ever I looked on. I hoped to make you my wife. But my modest love was not equal to a prince's wealth." He winds his hand in her hair, stroking her tresses with startling gentleness. Hero watches, petrified, as he softens into the handsome youth she thought she knew. "I understood. I held my tongue, for how could he not lose his heart to such pure loveliness."

His face twists and he yanks her hair, wrenching a cry from her.

"Oh, what authority and show of truth can cunning sin cover itself withal! Even now, knowing what poison is concealed, does your sweetness call to me." He leans in, scenting her neck. Hero recoils, but there is nowhere to go. He draws back in anguish. "Oh Hero, what a Hero you could have been, if half your outward graces had been placed about your thoughts and counsels of your heart!"

Beneath him, Hero trembles. "Claudio, please. Let me go."

He clenches his fist, making her wince. "Viper. Strumpet. I should drag you before the Prince and expose your infidelity. Let all know the truth of what you are. Oh, pure impiety and impious purity."

Hero whimpers, shivering uncontrollably. Her pulse gallops, breathing too fast and too shallow to keep pace, "...please… "

"I heard what you called him. That dirty mongrel. I did believe him a soulless fiend, but you admit a share in his abomination. His sins are yours. His wickedness is a stain on your outwards beauty, it taints your flesh, revealing the true rot inside."

He seizes the bodice of her dress, tearing it enough to expose the mark across her breast. Hero screams, battering Claudio with her freed hands. Seeing the scrawl of 'Bastard' upon her, Claudio snarls like some mad beast.

"Devil's whore!"

Hero's palm strikes across his face, catching him in the eye. He staggers and she shoves him off her, attempting to flee —

His arms snake around her before she makes it far. Hero cries out as she is hauled back into his chest, lashing at him.

"Vile harpy!" Claudio spits, eyes aflame. "Rue that I ever admired your fair visage!"

Hero struggles against him, sobbing and panting as she claws for escape, but he is too strong.

Laughter rebounds through the courtyard. Claudio freezes. There comes the sound of voices and footsteps approaching. A group of men swagger into the square, joking and jostling each other; their unsteady gait a testimony to their intoxication. Hero's heart sinks.

"Oh ho, what'sss all th-thiiss," someone crows, spotting Hero and Claudio.

"Thought I heard a wailing," mutters another. "Took it for ahh cup-cup-couple ah cats going at-t it."

"Well… it ain't cats."

Claudio lurches from Hero and she flees the horrid scene into the house.

"Oi. Ain't that the lady?"

Hero hurtles down the hall, terrified Claudio will pursue her. She skids, hot tears blinding her, near deafened with the hammering of her pulse. The walls rise up around her, blurring together; the home she has known all her life now becomes a maze.

"Hero!" Someone exclaims and then she is ensnared in another set of arms. Hero bucks, swinging at her captor. "Hero! Hero! What is wrong, sweet? What has happened!"

Beatrice's face swirls into view and Hero gasps, collapsing into her cousin's embrace. She buries her face in Beatrice's blouse, drenching the cotton with tears.

Beatrice holds her quivering form. "Oh my darling. Oh my heart."

A deeper voice sounds — male — and Hero flinches. She does not hear his words or Beatrice's response, but she is alert to the sound of footsteps and tenses, before realising they are moving away.

Hero clings to Beatrice. Her cousin strokes her hair, speaking in the gentlest of voices. "Come, dearest. We shall retire to your chambers. We will be safe there. No one shall disturb us."

Hero sniffs and nods, trusting Beatrice to guide her, unable to distinguish more than vague shapes as the tears continue to pour. Her eyes burn, her arm throbbing. As she walks her legs tremor with such intensity she is amazed she reaches her room without them crumbling from under her.

"Here. Here, sweet. You are safe here." Beatrice leads her to the bed, setting her upon the mattress.

Hero's gaze snaps to the windows. "Are — are the sh-shut-shutters — are they closed?"

"I will close them."

She senses more than sees Beatrice rise and Hero huddles on the bed, drawing her knees to her chest, her whole frame shuddering.

"There, all secure."

"And the — and the door — the door."

"No one will be getting in here without facing me first."

Hero moans, cradling her head. "I am going to be sick."

A bowl is placed in Hero's lap and she heaves. Beatrice rubs her back, making soothing sounds. Hero aches, her body wrenching forward.

At last, her stomach empties and after a few more dry heaves, the bowl is placed aside. Beatrice hands her a glass of water.

When Hero has finished drinking, she sinks into the bedsheets, still shuddering. She is aware of Beatrice removing her shoes and stockings, then crawling up the bed to untie her sleeves and corset. Hero cringes, digging her nails into the pillow, but does not fight as Beatrice undresses her.

"Who did this, Hero?" Beatrice asks with careful calm, a dagger in a velvet sheath. "Who dared?"

Hero sobs and Beatrice lies beside her, cocooning her in her warmth. Still, Hero shivers, unmoored in an arctic sea. She feels exposed as if her skin has been peeled open, a cold wind rifling through her bones.

Beatrice combs her hair, untangling her remaining pins; half of them already lost to Claudio's tirade. Claudio. Claudio. CLAUDIO.

"Cl— Clau— ," Hero gags around the name, squeezing her eyes shut. "Claud-di — Claudio…"

Beatrice tenses, arms tightening. Hero whimpers and Beatrice slackens her hold, hugging her close. She nuzzles Hero's brow like a lioness with her cub and her breathing calms. She can sense her sister-cousin's rage, hear her vengeful thoughts like the patter of leather wings. But Beatrice is wise not to voice them. Hero cannot stomach further violence tonight, even talk of retribution.

The events of the evening spread out before her, a shattered mirror for her pacing mind to slice itself on. Blood oozes in scarlet rivulets, writhing into hissing snakes. She clutches Beatrice and weeps, each tear another splinter escaping. Her body is wracked with the sensation of crushed glass scraping under flesh and marrow. Every nerve is on fire, her senses drowned in ice. She presses closer to Beatrice, hoping her heat might chase out the cold.

She drags her wrist to her face, untangling her ribbon, and presses her nose to her pulse, breathing in…

…and out…

…and in…

…and out…

She wants to crawl inside Beatrice, to disappear into her father's wardrobe, to return to her mother's embrace. She wants to feel safe. But beneath the floorboards, she senses Claudio's furious presence prowling through the house, a beast on the hunt. Like a frightened child, she shuts her eyes and prays the monster won't find her. Again.

:-x-:

Claudio slams the door of his chamber, blood raging through his veins.

He sees Hero smile at him upon his welcome to the villa, like a maiden presenting her favour to the valiant knight.

How sweet she seemed then, how virtuous and fair. His heart was hers and he thought hers was his too. But then Don Pedro convinced him to stand aside, charming her with his jewelled tongue. What lady could fail to be dazzled by the glamour of a crown? As noble and endowed as he was. What she did not understand — a prince possesses a wealth of pretty treasures. But Claudio, who prized her above all, would have cherished her, doted on her, made her the centrepiece of his heart.

The knowledge of their fated unhappiness was for Claudio to keep to himself (and pray the Prince's appetite was not like his father's). He could never make an enemy of Don Pedro, who he much admired. He was no traitor (though his own faith was betrayed). And she would be well cared for. If missing that precious devotion, he could have given her. It bruised to watch her laugh and dance with Don Pedro. But he smiled, remarking to anyone who noted the handsome pair that it was he who brought the modest lady to the Prince's notice. (His friend could have spared him more consideration, but such is the busy mind of a ruler).

However, to lose her to Don Pedro was one blow. To come across her entangled in the embrace of that bastard traitor, proclaiming her love for the cur —

Claudio's vision had filled with a crimson haze, erupting with righteous fury as he understood the trick they had played on him and the Prince. When he recovered his senses, the villain was gone, and Hero stood alone, an angel in the darkness. Now, he saw her for what she truly was. Rotten. He would not allow her to drag the good prince down with her.

He stepped from his hiding place, startling her, and thwarted her attempt at flight. As he seized her, railed at her loose and deceitful ways, she became agitated, realising her schemes were unravelled. Claudio thought he detected a trace of shame in her countenance, but then her sweet disguise fell and she lashed at him like a hellcat.

Oh, how greatly he was fooled by the rose of her cheeks. Her blush was guiltiness, not modesty.

CRASH

Breathing hard, Claudio observes the pitcher smashed upon the floor, water puddling across the wood. His arm twitches, skin pricking, feverish. An intense awareness of the injustice swells in his chest. If those drunkards had not interrupted them, he would have thrown her before the Prince, before her father — the whole of Messina — and revealed her as a common stale.

He sees her pressing into the traitor, encouraging his lewd explorations, her face fluttering in vulgar exaltation.

The chair clatters to the ground, floorboards shuddering. Claudio seethes.

Don John. What greater fiend than he? What villain, more depraved or more duplicitous? His soul as black as his blood. How warped is Hero's own, to be joined with such a villain? To urge his touch rather than recoil from it. To proclaim love instead of loathing.

This is the proof of her corruption; the rot at her core. Her soul must be a shrivelled, moth-eaten rag. Her heart, a cankerous boil.

He remembers the bastard's words to him, intended for another's ears. How he bid the count, in the guise of brotherly concern, dissuade Don Pedro's infatuation from Hero, citing the lowness of her birth. Did he know then the extent of her unworthiness? Or, observing his brother's attachment, did he plot to bring her lower? While Don Pedro professed his tender love under God's sun, was Don John sneaking into her window at night, whispering sinful seductions?

Oh, vile defiler. Judas and Cain. Unable to steal his brother's throne, the traitor besieged his love, and, finding her virtue so easily vanquished (if it were not before him), did ensure her thorough ruin and Don Pedro's humiliation. Perhaps he even hoped his conniving Delilah would wed the Prince and he could place a cuckoo in her belly, claiming the crown through his demonspawn.

The pillow rips apart, raining feathers, as Claudio roars.

DISHONOURABLE, TRAITOROUS, LOATHSOME WRETCH!

Claudio will kill him.

Yes.

Kill him.

Claudio snatches up his sword, wrenching open the door.

Oh, yes. He will hunt down the rat. Skew him like the vermin he is. His murky blood shall pour from his corpse and no one shall grieve him. Except, perhaps, his faithless whore.

Claudio will deal with her soon enough.

"Claudio!" He starts, the red mist receding as Don Pedro strides towards him, face split in a grin. "Where have you been? I missed you at the revel."

The Prince brims with good cheer, the stress of the previous months' conflict vanished from his face, replaced with a brilliance Claudio regrets he must cloud.

Don Pedro clasps his shoulder. "Come, the night is merry. Why do you look so grim?"

"I have ill tidings, my lord, concerning your miscreant brother."

Don Pedro's expression grows wearied, the weight returning to his shoulders. "What has he done?"

"I caught him making love to Hero."

Don Pedro's eyes widen. "Hero? Is this true?"

"On my honour, I saw them as surely as I see you now."

Claudio waits for the same explosion of grief and fury he felt upon discovering the betrayal. But Don Pedro is calm, almost cavalier, as he rubs his chin. "I saw the kindling between them. This news is not as much a shock to me as it must be for you."

Claudio gawps at him. "You mean… you knew she was disloyal?"

Pedro's brow knits together. "Disloyal? I do not follow your meaning. Who has been disloyal?"

"Why, Hero! Has she not promised herself to you? Has she not broken that promise in the worst possible form by giving herself to your brother."

"Hero? But she has made me no promises?" Don Pedro frowns. "Good count, speak plain. What trespass do you think has occurred?"

The blood rushes through Claudio's skull, veins on the brink of bursting. "IS HERO NOT YOUR LOVE? YOUR BETROTHED?

Pedro stares in amazement then laughs. "You are in jest!" Claudio does not share his amusement and Don Pedro's humour dies, searching his face. "You cannot be serious? Whatever have we said or done to make you believe so?"

Claudio reels. "YOU — you are CAPTIVATED with her. Your — your behaviour — it is so — so FAMILIAR. The other night! You walked together and when you returned you were in such a state of giddiness it was as if you had walked amongst the clouds. YOU SPOKE WITH HER FATHER. I assumed you were to be MARRIED!"

Pedro's stares at him, agog. "Married! Knowing how your heart was engaged? Did you believe I would so ill-use you? I took Hero and Leonato into my counsel to devise how best to bring Benedick and Beatrice together. A plot, you foreswore any part in."

"But — but — but YOUR BROTHER — he did swear you LOVED her!" Even as he speaks them the words ring false in Claudio's mind and he realises his error.

Don Pedro's face stiffens, quieting his voice, "When did my brother tell you this?"

"The — the first night—" Claudio chokes, his ears filling with the sounds of waves breaking on the rocks, "—during the masque. He — he mistook me for Benedick."

Or had he?

No. Don John had known all along who Claudio was. Damn the villain! He had sought to drive a wedge between Claudio and Don Pedro and almost succeeded. Oh, the insidious worm. Claudio's fist clenches around his sabre.

Don Pedro regards him with a sympathetic gleam. Claudio gnashes his teeth, loathing to be pitied. "Odious blaggard, most condemnable DECEIVER! I shall have his liver for how he has abused me!"

Don Pedro catches his shoulder. "Stay yourself, count. Though I sympathise with your plight, John is still my kinsman and it is for me to decide how he is reprimanded."

Claudio rounds on him, incensed with the injustice. "It is not to be borne, my lord! He sought to make enemies of us!"

Don Pedro raises an eyebrow. "Where faith is a citadel, he could not have laid siege. Your doubt was our undoing."

Claudio colours, bowing his head. "I confess, I have acted the fool. So well did I admire the fair Hero that I easily believed you could share in that same affection."

Don Pedro softens. "I understand where you erred, dear friend. My brother is a convincing liar. I realise now we have been mistaking each other these last few weeks. I thought your melancholy sprung from rejection not betrayal."

Claudio drops to his knees, seizing the Prince's hand and clutching it to his forehead. "Forgive me, my noble prince, for my folly. I value your friendship far higher than I esteemed the lady and, thus, never put the matter to you for I did not wish to quarrel."

Don Pedro squeezes his shoulder. "I bid you rise. My dear friend, you have been much misused. I will ensure my brother is justly recompensed for his trick. If you wish to duel him for the lady's hand, I will not intercede, although it must be for the win and not blood."

Claudio sneers, "I will not have her NOW; knowing how she is TAINTED. Mark me, I shall reckon with the KNAVE for how he has mocked me, but in truth he has done me one good-turn. He has spared me from knitting my soul to an approved WANTON."

Don Pedro flinches, glancing around in alarm. With considerable force, he hauls Claudio aside. "Lower your voice. You slander a sweet lady."

Claudio scoffs. "It is the word which best befits her given the vulgar scene I witnessed between her and the ba— your brother."

Don Pedro's face pinches. "John delights in vulgarity, but Hero… I considered her a prudent and virtuous maid."

"HA!"

Don Pedro rubs his brow. "If John has debauched her, then I shall ensure he does right by her and the two are joined under the eyes of God." Claudio opens his mouth but Don Pedro silences him with a pointed finger. "You, Claudio, will hold your peace. Speak no more of this."

Claudio grits his jaw, unable to refuse a direct command. Sullenly, he abides, "Yes, my lord."

"Good." The twinkle returns to Don Pedro's eyes and he smiles, clapping Claudio on the back. "Do not look so downcast, my friend. We shall find a good wife for you yet. You are young and have much to recommend you. Put this trouble from your mind and dream of a fairer future. I promise, Claudio, you shall get all that you deserve."

Chapter Text

John stirs into consciousness with a groan; there is a cramp in his neck and a pounding through his skull. He clenches his teeth. It feels as if someone has turned his scalp inside-out and worn it as a glove.

He lifts his head, something peeling from his cheek, and blinks back the grogginess. He rubs his face, taking in his surroundings. He must have passed out here in his room, on the hard table instead of the bed. Parchment litters the desk. Ink smudges his fingers, staining his sleeve. The dots connect in his mind and John strains for the shaving mirror. Sure enough, ink is smeared across his face.

He swears, thunking his head onto the wood. Pain flares, agonising, down through his nerves and he is momentarily paralysed before the sensation ebbs, a slow trickle. John spends a few moments more wallowing in his misery then, finally, he forces himself upright, examining the writing that was so important to his previous night's self.

The words are a hot poker on his brain—

Traitor

Whoreson

Filth

Wretch

Mutt

Bastard

BASTARD

BASTARD

He crumples the parchment, hurling it aside, then rakes his hand through his hair. Memories of last night flame across his mind —

…Hero, warm in his arms, the distance shrinking between them…

…how beautiful she is, ethereal in the moonlight…

…her soft confession, doe eyes imploring his return…

…her quivering lips and breathy sigh kindling through his blood…

…the heat of her beneath his touch, the pale length of her throat, his mouth hovering at her pulse…

…the scrawl of 'Bastard' contaminating her flesh like a plague…

John screws shut his eyes and screams into his arm, slumping to the floor and sprawling on his back.

After Hero's revelation, he had returned to his room, pacing the shrinking space, his blood beating through his skull. At one point he had been close to ripping off his clothes to inspect his own soulmarks. But the terror of what he might find stayed him. Still, his mind clutched for those words long dismissed…

meak

dull

spineless

obedient

Could these be Hero's? Harmless insecurities with none of the sinister edges of his own?

Instead of confirming his suspicions, he sought refuge in the wine — observing the empty bottle now, he understands why his head convulses as it does. He had wondered what else might be written on Hero's flesh and ended up scribbling onto parchment all the terrible names he had earned over the years. The list was long and wretched.

To think, Hero carries such ugliness on her perfect skin; their cruelties disfiguring her gentle soul. John retches into the chamber pot, shuddering through the horrid sensation. As his stomach settles, he bows his head to his knee, breathing in…

How is it possible that God or Fate could shackle one so sweet and virtuous to his damned soul?

It is profane. It is a joke.

But…if it is true…

The thought is sharp, the scrape of a dagger down bone. John cringes. He cannot think on this now.

He clambers to his feet, gait unsteady as he heads for the water basin to wash his face. His hair is matted with grease and sweat, his clothes soiled and itching. He smells like a drunk. In short, he needs a bath.

He needs air.

:-x-:

Hero lies in bed, her pillow damp with tears. She can feel their salt tracks drying on her cheeks. Her eyes sting, her lashes clotted together. She watches the morning light creep in through the curtains. Behind her, she hears Beatrice at the door telling someone that Hero is unwell and to bring breakfast up to them.

Her body aches, as if every one of her nerves has been burned like a candlewick, leaving her a charred husk. Worse is her arm, which throbs as if Claudio's fingers were indented into bone. At this angle she can view the mottles of ochre, violet, and black that have formed.

She hears Beatrice approach the bed. Her sister-cousin held her the whole night, shielding the shivering Hero from the cold, assuring her she was safe, even as her mind forced her to relive Claudio's assault, over and over —

What could she have done?

What did she do wrong?

Why? WHY?

STOP.

"Hero…" a touch to her shoulder. "Are you awake, love?"

In answer, Hero rolls over, looking up into Beatrice's worried face. There are heavy bags under her cousin's eyes; Hero doubts she fares any better.

"Must I rise?" Her voice comes, sand scraping through her lungs.

"No," Beatrice's answers gently. "You rest here. I shall tell everyone you are ill. Though… you may desire a change of clothes."

Hero hugs her waist. She is still wearing the torn dress from last night. It had been one of her best. Now the fabric hangs down her breast — not enough to expose her, but far from decent — revealing the precious soulmark she has spent her life protecting. With a small nod, she pushes herself from the bed, her motions sluggish. Beatrice moves to assist her. As she undresses, Hero hears the sharp inhale through her cousin's teeth, Beatrice's gaze fixing on her bruised arm.

Hero dons a new frock, tugging on the sleeves which end at her elbows. As she fiddles with the garment, her eyes heat, her fingers clenching in the cotton waist. Her legs fold and she sinks to the floor in a sobbing heap.

Beatrice follows, bundling her into her arms. "Sshh, sshh, it is alright. I am here, Hero. I am here."

Hero chokes as the tears flood her sore eyes, dribbling down her cheeks. Her left hand clasps around nothing. "What will — what will he — he think of me?"

Beatrice smooths back her hair from where it clings to her face. "What will who think, sweet?"

"J-John! I-I told him — we — we were soulmates." Her voice wrenches on this last word.

Beatrice hugs her close, as if she could pull her inside her. "Oh Hero…"

"He — he will see Claudio's words — he will know—!"

She wails, bending like a flower with a broken stem, her anguish demanding release.

Beatrice cups her face, easing her back up so their eyes meet. Hero sees the lightning in her cousin's gaze, the promise of retribution. "Tell me all."

:-x-:

Breakfast is a quiet affair. Leonato explains to Pedro that his daughter has taken ill and his niece is tending to her. Pedro wonders if Hero's absence has anything to do with the tale Claudio brought to him of catching her and John in an intimate position last night. He does not share these musings with his host. Pedro will speak to John first and gauge his brother's intentions towards the lady. If he does not mean to honour her, Pedro will ensure his change of heart.

For all his brother's faults — and the list is long — Pedro does believe John is genuine in his affections for the girl. And, against all odds, she seems to return his feelings. Pedro hopes she will be a calming influence on his brother and soften that wild temper of his. Surely a wife will prevent any further attempts on Pedro's throne.

He is on his way to speak with his brother when Benedick blocks his path, motioning him into a private alcove. "My lord, a word please."

Pedro takes in his friend's unusually grim countenance and his smile slips. "Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what's the matter, that you have such a February face, so full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?

"There has been an incident. Last night, I was escorting Beatrice—"

"Beatrice?" Pedro's grin renews. "I did not think you could endure the company of your Lady Tongue."

Benedick's ears turn scarlet. "I-I — a man's appetite may alter." His expression resumes its solemnity. "This is not the matter I wished to discuss. A serious offence has occurred."

A sense of foreboding settles in Pedro's stomach. "Tell me."

"Last night, I was escorting Beatrice in from the revel when Hero rushed upon us in great distress. Some lecherous fiend had abused the poor girl. She was weeping and her dress was torn. Beatrice ushered her upstairs and I searched for the perpetrator. Alas, I did not find him. A gaggle of our men, who had been — shall we say — liberal with the wine, claimed they saw a woman fitting Hero's description in the arms of a dark-haired man. That is all I was able to discover." Benedick looks frustrated. "Perhaps Hero will be able to identify her attacker. I fear he is one of our own. Whoever the swine is I shall be certain to devise for him some brave punishments — but Prince, you look ill?"

"This speech runs like iron through my blood," Pedro gasps. "Come, I fear I know the villain."

He strides down the hall, Benedick hurrying after him. "You do? Who? Who? Name the roach! I shall stomp on him!"

"Claudio—"

"Claudio!"

"No. Of course not. Claudio reported to me that he had witnessed a liaison between Hero and… John."

"John?"

"My brother John."

Benedick careens. "What? That villain!"

Pedro throws him an admonishing look before sighing. "I would caution you to curb your tongue, but… if John has indeed misused the lady, then villain is a fitting epithet."

"Did Claudio not intervene?"

Pedro shakes his head. "I believe he left when he realised who the lovers were. I found him in a wretched state. You know how enamoured he was of Hero. From his telling, it sounded like a mutual partaking. Perhaps it was in the beginning. I believe the lady has a tender for my brother. But she does not understand his violent nature. Perhaps he was too rough or pushed for more than her virtue could permit. I am sure if Claudio saw Hero mistreated he would have drawn his sword on the perpetrator."

"The swine would deserve it," Benedick spits, his face thunderous.

Pedro does not reprimand him, his own blood steaming. He is not sure he can believe it. His brother has committed heinous acts in his time — including treason and attempted fratricide — but to assault an innocent woman… Pedro had not thought so low of him. Especially not when he saw with his own eyes the gentleness with which his brother treated the lady in question.

It does not make sense. And yet. How else is he to account for Claudio and Benedick's testimonies? He will speak to his brother. Allow him the chance to defend himself. If Pedro is unsatisfied with what he learns, he will ensure swift justice is dealt. This time, there will be no reconciliation.

Pedro bangs on the door to his brother's chambers. "John. Open up."

There is no answer.

He hammers his fist against the wood. "JOHN."

Receiving no response, he twists the handle, stalking inside. John is not there.

Pedro wrinkles his nose at the putrid stench of vomit polluting the air.

"I always thought him foul but never realised it was so pungent," Benedick mutters, covering the lower half of his face.

Conrade, who has been a companion to John, scuttles inside, a nervous look about him. "My lords."

Pedro advances on him. "Where. Is. He?"

Conrade regards them, his words measured, "Your brother has gone out. Walking, I believe."

"Where?"

"He… I did not see him leave."

Pedro turns to Benedick, who is frowning over a piece of parchment. "Send the scouts. If he has fled, they shall find him, and return him in chains."

"That is hardly necessary—"

Pedro ignores Conrade, his voice firm as he addresses Benedick. "This must be kept quiet. We cannot allow this to spread before the truth is known. A lady's honour is at stake."

:-x-:

How quick a spark becomes a blaze.

It kindles on a whisper, "I heard the Prince and Claudio talking…"

Crackles across eager tongues, "You will not believe who was seen last night…"

Combusts with a careless laugh, "Yes, her. The virtuous ones often have the filthiest appetites…"

Rumour blisters through the ranks like tinder, catching in the staff's ears.

"No.The mistress? Never."

"She was seen. And with the bastard."

"Shameless. Utterly shameless."

When it reaches Borachio, he swings back in his chair, raising his cup, and chuckles, "Took her at last, did he? About time."

And so, fans the flames.

:-x-:

John holds himself underwater, arms wrapped around his legs, anchoring him in the stillness, the silence. A burning builds in his chest, lungs screaming, clawing for air.

At last, he breaks the surface, coughing as his breathing resumes. He stands, slicking back his hair. His hands scrub over his shoulders and down his arms. As he washes, he glimpses the dark scrawl which coils around his skin. John sighs. He cannot avoid this any longer. He braces against the edge of the bath, rising so his full torso is on view and tracks the words…

…obedient…

…timid…

…unremarkable…

…no match for her cousin…

These words are familiar, as much as he tried to forget them, he has carried these marks half his life. But there are others — new marks he does not recognise scarring his skin in furious letters —

…vixen…

…deceiving minx…

…wicked siren…

…viper…

…most foul…

…strumpet…

Nausea spikes in his throat and he scours his body for more.

…vile harpy…

…more intemperate in your blood…

…venom runs cold in your veins…

…shameless succubus…

…pure impiety and impious purity…

…devil's whore…

He rubs his skin until it is red but the words do not disappear. He stares at them, horror dawning.

When had they appeared? These cannot belong to Hero. She must have been mistaken. It has to be someone else.

But if they are hers —

If someone has directed these cruel slanders at her —

If they have hurt her —

When? Who? How? WHEN? WHO?

John heaves himself from the bath, hastening to redress. He has to return to the villa. NOW.

:-x-:

Embers carry on the wind, reaching the crop rows and eating through the fields.

"Have you heard…"

"It can't be true."

"...with the bastard?!"

Soon the vineyard and the surrounding countryside is consumed with thick smoke and the flames scorch a path to the town.

"Yes that Hero. Leonato's Hero."

"But she is such a sweet chick."

"It is always the quiet ones."

Men wag their tongues, nudging each other, exchanging smarmy grins. Young women titter to themselves while their elders tut and shake their heads.

"What did the old man expect? Exposing a sheltered girl like that to all those soldiers."

"She sure gave them a Hero's welcome."

"He will never find a husband for her now."

The wildfire rages, out-of-control. It is not long before it reaches the ears of Leonato.

:-x-:

Hero sits by her window, listening to the bustle of life outside, the servants chattering amongst themselves, fresh supplies unloaded from a cart, the birds twittering in their nests, a bee buzzing past her sill. The world going on as if nothing has changed.

But Hero is changed. She feels her bones splintering, crystallising into something new. Her skin is abraded, peeling away her former self, leaving her raw and shivering, caught between metamorphosis. What she is to become, she does not know.

Beatrice has left her to change into clean clothes. Or so she said. Hero saw the fury in her eyes as she departed, promising her return. Ursula and Margaret are there instead, chattering to Hero as they bustle about the room, stripping the sheets. Hero does not join in their conversation, but finds herself soothed by their familiar voices — these women who have long been her companions, she is safe with them.

Hero rubs her wrist, the 'unlovable' as bold as ever, and sees again the set of John's shoulders as he walks away.

("...shameless succubus… wicked siren… most foul, most fair… you would lure the good Prince to his destruction with your insidious charms…")

Claudio's words swarm like wasps, spearing her with their poisonous stings.

("...more intemperate in your blood than Venus, or those pamper'd animals that rage in savage sensuality…")

Hero presses her hand to her breast and chants under her breath… bastard… scum… vermin… villain…

("...his sins are yours… his wickedness is a stain on your outwards beauty…")

…wretch… brat… mongrel… knave…

("...what authority and show of truth can cunning sin cover itself withal…")

…traitor… worthless… fiend… whoreson…

("Devil's whore!")

She weaves the words like a chainmail around her. Claudio cannot touch her.

"HERO."

She starts at her name and looks to the door, staring uncomprehendingly at the wild man who wears her father's face. He stalks towards her, rage distorting those features so dear and familiar. Her heartbeat quickens and she shrinks back in her chair — Claudio seizes her, hauling her from the seat, his hand a manacle around her arm —

"What is this I hear? What vile slander! That you were seen late last night in the embrace of a ruffian! That my prized daughter is no maid! That I am dishonoured and have nourished a viper in my nest! Well? Speak! Or does shame hold your tongue?"

Hero stares at the wrathful apparition twisting between Claudio and her father. Horror rakes talons of ice through her insides. Her trembling returns tenfold, paralysing her in her father's grasp, rendered mute as the tears flood her eyes.

"Oh, confirmed! Confirmed!" Her father cries. "How your guilt does overflow! Your true face shows in this wash. Oh, what hideousness it reveals."

"Sir! Sir, please!" Ursula implores, attempting to pry him from Hero. "The lady is unwell."

"Sickened by her own sin, no doubt. The rot that festers in her soul now poisons the vessel. Let her die! Death is the fairest cover for her shame that may be wished for!" He flings Hero aside and she tumbles into the bed. "Do not live, Hero; do not open your eyes! If I thought your spirits stronger than your shames, I would myself, on the rearward of reproaches, strike at your life!"

Hero clutches the bed sheets, preventing herself from collapsing as her whole body shudders. She leans her temple on the mattress, her father's ravings drowned out by a splitting in her ears.

"Grieved I, I had but one? Chid I for that at frugal nature's frame? Why had I one? Why ever were you lovely in my eyes? Why had I not with charitable hand took up a beggar's issue at my gates, who smirched thus and mired with infamy, I might have said 'No part of it is mine; this shame derives itself from unknown loins'?"

Hero feels as if she has been wrenched in two, both here and apart. No longer does she recognise this world, her mind rejects it as oil to water. This is not her life, this is not her father. She floats outside herself, watching the scene unfold as a sleeper would a dream.

Her father bellows, face flushed puce and crimson. "But mine and mine I loved and mine I praised and mine that I was proud of, mine so much that I myself was to myself not mine, valuing of her."

"Brother, please." Antonio arrives, followed by Margaret, and restrains his brother. "Be calm. Please. We should hear her piece."

"Every earthly thing cries shame upon her! She is fallen into a pit of ink, that the wide sea has drops too few to wash her clean again and salt too little which may season give to her foul-tainted flesh!"

Hero hears Claudio's voice — "His wickedness…taints your flesh, revealing the true rot inside…" — and she is screaming.

It is a scream to freeze all who hear it. A ghoulish scream that chills the living and rattles the dead. The scream of the fox caught in a trap, of a creature skinned alive, of women chained to stakes and dunked into lakes. It is agonised and grieving and desperate and defiant. It is the scream of a person ripped apart and forged scabrous and anew.

Hero screams until her voice is hoarse and then she stands, facing her accusers. Leonato, Antonio, Ursula, and Margaret stare at her like a thing possessed. And perhaps she has been. This feeling that now awakens inside her is both old and new. Both hers and of others. It has simmered in her breast since her first taste of blood from biting her tongue. Now, it erupts.

"Oh, God defend me! How am I beset! Twice have I been abused by men who claim to love me." She pulls up her sleeve to reveal the black bruise engulfing her arm. "I ask you, is this love?"

Gasps ripple around the room.

"Niece, who did this?" Antonio demands, his gaze flitting to Leonato.

"Claudio, my noble suitor, overhearing me — overhearing me confess my favour for Don John, flew into a jealous temper and bestowed this — this generous token of his affection. The embrace we were seen in was a violent struggle. I was endeavouring to free myself from him when those soldiers stumbled upon us and assumed it to be — something else. I escaped and found Beatrice, who will attest for me."

"Claudio attacked you?" Ursula asks, aghast.

"Count Claudio?" Her father utters. "He is an honourable man. I cannot believe it of him."

"But you believe me a strumpet?" Hero whips back, voice cracking. Ursula cries, but Hero continues, unrepentant. "Why is my word not good enough for you, dear father? So quick to believe others' lies. To forsake me. Have I not been a good daughter? Served you? Pleased you? Conformed to all you bid? Modest, chaste, obedient. None of my cousin's shrewdness. None of her spirit. Dull. Insipid. Spineless." Hero hugs her chest, lashes squeezing shut. "Tell me, father, my maker, my Pygmalion, what has this devotion earned me?" Stunned silence follows this speech and Hero's eyes flash open. She points an accusing finger. "Mistrust. Persecution. Where is your protection, father? I am belied. Dishonoured. And you would sooner stone me than rise to my defence? You are a coward." She spits the word, cheeks wet.

Her father steps forward, tears running into his beard. "Hero—"

She turns her back, cold as marble. At her core beats a molten heart. "You have said enough. You, who I have loved best… since I first drew breath. You would disown me on another's word…" She expels a shaking sob. "Go. Discover your truth. As my word is not to be trusted. Leave me. I cannot look at you while suspicion lingers in your eyes."

She walks to the window. Messina has been cast into dark cloud. Behind her she hears the others murmur to one another, retreating from the room. The breeze tousles her curls, the air cool over her tears. As she looks out to the horizon there begins a pitter-patter of rain. Her nails pinch her skin.

This is too much. This is all too much.

:-x-:

John makes it back to the villa as the first drops of rain start to fall. He is sprinting up the track when there is a shout and several soldiers surround him. Surprise slows his reaction and they are upon him.

John rears back, bucking against their restraint. "Coxcombs! What — is the meaning of this?"

"By order of the Prince, you are to be apprehended and brought to him."

John gnashes his teeth. Pedro, of course.

"What, is his summons not enough? He must send his lap dogs too?" They attempt to secure his arms and he lashes out. "Fie! Fie! I shall follow. I need not be chained."

The soldiers regard him with suspicion. At last, their leader nods. "Come then."

He starts up the path. One of his companions shoves John forward. "Walk, bastard."

John considers breaking his nose, but decides four against one are not good odds. He hunches his shoulders and walks, chewing on thoughts of revenge. Overhead, the sky rumbles.

Chapter Text

Beatrice stalks through the villa like a tempest unleashed. Doors and portraits rattle in her wake; passing servants spring from her path. Her burnished curls snake out behind her like the head of Medusa. The spirits of the ancient Furies have possessed her and there is Hell to pay.

"Beatrice! Good morning!" Benedick bounds before her with a broad grin.

"Signior Benedick." She pushes around him.

Benedick scrambles after her. "Tarry, Beatrice, what urgent matter has you in such haste?"

"I am to kill Claudio."

Benedick crashes into a table. The vase atop it threatens to fall and he catches it just in time. "Pardon. I must have misheard. What is your purpose?"

"To kill Claudio."

Benedick laughs. Beatrice does not. His laughter trails to a croak as he realises she is in earnest.

"Beatrice! Beatrice!" He dives in front of her, blocking her path. She pushes past him, but he seizes her shoulder, wheeling her round. "Stay. Stay. Tell me how he has offended you."

"Let me pass!" She barrels into his chest, but he plants his feet, immovable as an oak. "He has wronged my kinswoman! I will have justice served!"

"Wronged your kinswoman? I do not understand. In what way has he done so?"

Beatrice slams against him, turbulent as the sea, and Benedick strains to hold back the tide. "You saw Hero last night. How she had been abused! Claudio did that to her." She glares ahead. "Oh, for raising a hand against her — I shall take his hands!"

"Peace, Beatrice. Peace. Claudio is not your enemy. The villain you seek is Don John."

Her gaze whips to him. "Don John? Why say you so?"

"He was seen last night with Hero in an… uhh… an intimate embrace."

Beatrice glances around for eavesdroppers, then leans into Benedick, her voice a hiss, "I know of my cousin's conversation with Don John. There is no wrong in that. Who is spreading such tales?"

"No one spreads tales. Claudio saw Hero with Don John and brought his concerns to the Prince—"

"Claudio." Beatrice's eyes flare, pupils spearing him. "You have this from Claudio."

Benedick falters. "I… well… I have it from the Prince… who had it from the count…"

"Princes and counties! Surely, a princely testimony, a goodly count, Count Comfect; a sweet gallant surely!" Beatrice scoffs. "You and the Prince are deceived. Don John quitted Hero after a chaste exchange. It was Claudio, vicious jealousies aroused from spying on the pair, who then, with unmitigated rancour, assaulted my cousin — scorned and injured her. Oh God!" She shoves from him. "That I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place."

Benedick gapes. "Claudio did… but this cannot be!"

She whirls on him, eyes as bright as the fires of Troy. "You doubt my cousin's word? I have the full of it from her."

"No. No. And yet—" Benedick frowns, shaking his head. "I cannot believe Claudio, who is my friend and an honourable gentleman, capable of this — this violence. It is John the Bastard whose spirits toil in frame of villanies."

"I have heard how the count butchered his enemies in battle. You cannot deny that violence is in his nature."

"That was war! We all killed on the field. Claudio is a good soldier."

Beatrice sinks her fingers into his coat, steel features softening the smallest amount. "A good soldier does not mean a good man."

He flinches from her. "I cannot credit this."

Her face hardens. "Go then. I will not waste my breath convincing you when that louse goes unchallenged and sweet Hero weeps in her chamber."

She makes to leave. Benedick snags her arm before she can, reeling her back to him. "Tarry, good Beatrice." He holds her storm-blue gaze. "Think you in your soul that Claudio has wronged Hero?"

She looks him dead in the eye as she answers, "As sure as I have a thought or a soul."

Benedick inhales. He is not the fool others think him. He knows whose words are inscribed on his skin. Though he has never breathed a word, lest it should destroy him — he knows. And she does too.

He bows his head, clasping her hand. "Enough. I am engaged. We shall confront him together."

Beatrice exhales and her fingers rise to brush his chest, catching in his collar between shirt and skin. "You are a good man, Signior Benedick."

He lifts his gaze to hers, his shoulders heavier than before. Beatrice feels flayed at the raw emotion in his face; her ribcage cranked open, exposing her beating heart for all to see. But it is only Benedick. Only Benedick…

He rocks forward and her breath hitches; her pulse fluttering. He takes her hand, the bristles of his beard scratching the skin in a not unpleasant manner as he bestows the faintest kiss to her fingers

"By this hand, I swear Claudio shall render us a dear account."

Beatrice's chest tightens, her legs trembling a second before she recalls herself.

"Come," he bids, voice firm with resolution, "Let us not dither. There is a recompense to be paid."

Beatrice nods and the storm in her billows; lightning forks through her veins, salt-winds lash beneath her skin, the hurricane in her chest howls for release. Oh, Claudio knows not what is coming for him. She will eat him raw.

:-x-:

John is shoved into a room, where Pedro is waiting inside. The Prince holds himself with the same stone-faced dignity as when a battle-scarred John was dragged before him, bleeding and in chains. His father's disdain in his brother's face.

As he did then, John sneers. "If you wanted to speak, you could have sent a messenger."

"You were not in your chambers."

"What, did I exceed the boundaries of my leash?"

Behind him, Pedro's soldiers shift, no doubt wanting to strike him for his insolence. The corner of John's mouth curves.

Pedro notices the movement and looks to his men. "Thank you, gentlemen. Please wait outside."

John senses their hesitation, glancing towards him, before abiding their prince and shuffling from the room.

"Not afraid to be alone with me?" John drawls. "You certainly treat me like a criminal."

"I have treated you BETTER than you deserve." Pedro rounds on him. "Against the counsel of my fellows, against caution not to allow familial affection to sway me, despite your many treasons, I have permitted you the freedoms and the privileges owed to your station." John scoffs and Pedro's nostrils flare. "Still, you show no gratitude, no humility, for the grace afforded you. You scorn not only me but Leonato, who has welcomed you into his home, honoured you with every courtesy. Then to repay him, to repay me, with such vile dishonour — I have no words for the depth of your depravity."

John arches an eyebrow. Pedro lacks their father's talent for castigation. He could make a man writhe like a snail without its shell. But Pedro is so insufferably self-righteous that it extinguishes any guilt John might have otherwise felt, instead sparking his insolence.

"That was a lengthy speech for someone with no words."

Pedro's scowl is fierce. "You are more than a criminal, John. You are a villain."

John shrugs, "I have never denied it."

He watches with relish as Pedro's face convulses. "You admit it then. You are proud to have misused an innocent lady?"

Wait — "What lady?"

Pedro looks as if he might spit fire. "Hero."

"Hero…" John goes cold, dark letters snaking across his vision. "What has she to do with this?"

"You were seen with her last night."

John stiffens, memories of the night before flashing through his mind. What might an eavesdropper have heard, what might they have seen —

…his hand upon her breast…

…the scent of her tickling his nose, tracing his lips across her throat…

…her soft sigh, "Ruin me…"

Shit. Shit. Shit.

With some effort, he manages to hide his panic and feign indifference. He will not confirm Pedro's suspicions. He will not risk Hero.

"We danced together. What of it?"

"Do not play games with me, John." Pedro's voice has a serrated edge.

The beast in John pricks its ears. He re-evaluates the situation. Rarely has he seen his brother this irate; one of Pedro's many irritating qualities is he is difficult to frustrate. There is something John is missing; some unseen danger.

"I know what transpired between you two."

John tenses, iron filling his mouth. "Be plain. I know not of what you speak."

Pedro regards him with a disgust that has John flinching. For all their differences, his brother has never looked at him like that.

"You bastard. I have woefully misjudged the depth of your villainy — that you would DARE force yourself upon a lady and now have the gall to deny it."

John stills, a ringing building in his ears from an invisible blow. "Force myself — Pedro. What — ?"

"She was found by her cousin and Benedick in great distress."

John recalls Hero's crestfallen face as he left her standing there, the memory like a brand across his brain. But then the rest of Pedro's meaning hits him. White hot fury erupts. "You think her distress was because I attacked her. Because I am a villain. Because I am a bastard. Because I am evil. You think I am a rapist too?"

Now Pedro's eyes widen and John can imagine how he appears, the rabid dog turning on its master.

"Fit me with every vile name. I own it. But not that. Never that. You wrong me, Pedro."

For the first time, Pedro pauses but then his face hardens. "How then do you explain the state she was found in? Several witnesses saw her in your arms. The front of her dress was torn."

The words pull at John's gut like a missed step down a staircase.

A commotion outside interrupts them and Leonato forces himself into the room. "My lord, I must speak with you."

The guards hurry after him, attempting to steer the old man back outside and prevent Antonio's own entrance, following behind.

"Apologies for this invasion, sire. I explained to these old men you were in a private conference."

Leonato bats them off. "Call me old man. I still possess both strength of limb and policy of mind to quit me of you thoroughly. My prince, I implore you, this matter is urgent."

Pedro gestures to his men. "Let them be. Good Leonato, what distresses you?"

"Sweet prince, my daughter is belied!"

Cracks splinter around John. "Hero?"

Leonato glances at him but his attention returns to Pedro, voice shifting between rage and despair. "Amongst the ranks of your men spreads slander against my innocent child."

Pedro looks to his men. "Be this true?"

The soldiers shift, their faces answer enough.

Pedro curses under his breath. "I thought my men more honourable than to bandy about tales of a lady."

"But they are not tales, my lord," one protests. "Donato saw her entangled with the — eckk!"

John takes him by his neck, pinning him to the wall. "Speak another word against her and I will tear out your throat."

The soldiers reach for their swords but Pedro raises his hand. "Enough. John. Release him."

John maintains his grip a few seconds longer, watching the man gag, his face turning puce, before letting go and knotting his hand in the soldier's shirt.

"Ba-bastard," the man wheezes.

John cocks his head then tosses him toward his friends. They fumble to catch him.

"Dishonour the lady," he warns them, "and answer to me."

"Nay, they shall answer to me," Antonio booms, pushing forward, a ferocious scowl splitting his red cheeks. "God knows I love my niece, and she is slandered by villains. Boys, apes, braggarts, Jacks, milksops!"

"Brother—"

"Good sir—"

Antonio throws up a hand. "Hold you content. I know them, yea, and what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple — scrambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boys, that lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander, go anticly, show outward hideousness, and speak off half a dozen dangerous words, how they might hurt their enemies, if they durst. And this is all."

The soldiers colour at this chastisement, shuffling their feet. John regards Antonio, impressed.

"Gentlemen, please, I beg your patience" Pedro intervenes, wrangling back control of the situation. "Good Leonato, I regret that your daughter's name has been besmirched and shall see to it my men are disciplined." He glances at John, "Those most culpable in particular." John bristles, but Pedro turns to his men, voice stern. "There will be no more talk on this matter. Silence is a virtue you shall prize over all and if further gossip reaches your ears, you will shut it down and report the culprits to me. Is this clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Get you gone."

The soldiers file from the room.

Leonato reclaims Pedro's attention with a desperate entreaty, "Prince, my daughter is gravely wronged. I will take satisfaction from the villain who has injured her."

Pedro holds up his hand. "Peace, sir. If you will have patience, I shall deal with my brother."

"What care I for your brother?" Leonato cries. "The villain is Count Claudio."

Pedro freezes. "Claudio?"

John is before Leonato in an instant. "What has he done? Tell me what the wretch has done!"

"This must be a misunderstanding," Pedro protests, "Claudio is honorable—"

"Then is my niece a liar?" Antonio demands. "For it was she who named him."

Pedro looks like a man who has drunk poison.

There is another disturbance outside and the doors crash open, revealing Benedick hauling Claudio, with Beatrice bringing up the rear.

"Princes. Uncles." She nods to them each with deceptive calm. She carries herself like the goddess Nemesis come to exact justice. "We bring forth Count Claudio who last night, in a jealous rage, assaulted my dear cousin, Hero."

Claudio breaks from Benedick, raising his hands in supplication. "Sinned I not but in mistaking. Believed I that she was promised to the Prince. Persuaded by this fiend," he points to John, "who swore his brother loved her, in what I now realise was a ploy to divide us. Thus, seeing her encouraging the lewd caresses of this same villain, I sought to defend my friend's honour and reproach the lady. Were I not tricked into thinking my friend misused, I never would have acted." He turns to Leonato. "I leave that office to her father."

Beatrice surges forwards. "Half her arm is black with your fingerprints, you dissembling brute. Hero told me of your accusations. That, with your single wit, you conceived she plotted with Don John to seduce the Prince and steal his throne." She scoffs. "Oh, how jealousy fevers the mind. You, sir, are the villain. More than this, you are a worm. You have wronged my sweet cousin, who is nothing but grace and virtue—"

"Ha!" Claudio barks. "You would not say so if you had seen her last night as I did, mewling for the bastard like a cat in hea—"

John's fist connects with Claudio's jaw and he goes down. John follows, raining blows.

"YOU. IT WAS YOU."

The marks on his skin burn across John's vision.

shameless succubus

loathsome Delilah

wicked siren

devil's whore

His fist hammers down, down, into Claudio's face, that wild animal inside him unleashed. Claudio lifts an arm to shield himself and strikes back at John. He feels the punches land but does not cease his assault. Shouts break-out above them, near-indiscernible over the thrumming in his blood, his own roar.

"I'LL KILL YOU."

Arms hook around John, dragging him off Claudio. He goes, thrashing, still kicking out at the dog.

"Easy, lad. Easy," Antonio's voice breaks through the din, "You will not right her like this."

John's mind fills with Hero… Hero laughing, twirling through the summer garden… Hero in the moonlit square, her hopeful expression shattering as he pulls away… kind, gentle Hero, wronged and injured because of Claudio. Because of him.

He goes limp, allowing Antonio and Benedick to heave him to his feet. Across from them, Pedro and Leonato raise Claudio, who stands on shaking legs, blood dribbling from his nose, his lip split.

"Damned swine," the boy spits, clutching his gushing nose. "I could not stain the lady worse than you. I have seen her mark. Bastard. Your filth is a blot upon her-uh-uh—"

He chokes as a knife presses to his throat.

Beatrice's voice comes silken and deadly as she wields the blade. "What know you of my cousin's marks? She keeps them hidden. Never would she have revealed one to you."

Claudio swallows. The room is silent, save for the rain lashing at the window.

Leonato rests his hand over Beatrice's and guides her knife from Claudio. "Nay, niece. Though I commend your purpose, this is a man's office."

Beatrice scoffs, drawing back. "Consider him a man?" She thrusts her blade towards Claudio. "Heed me, Count Worm. Come near my cousin again and I shall take that precious manhood from you and then we shall deal as equals."

This said, she slashes his cheek — a thin cut, too small for stitches but liable to scar. Claudio presses his hand to the wound, eyes bulging with shock, and cringes back into the wall, face pale beneath the bruises starting to swell.

Beatrice keeps her bloodied knife raised as she slinks to Benedick's side, who stares at her with open awe.

Leonato advances on the stricken youth. "Claudio, the wrong you have done mine innocent child forces me to lay my reverence by and, with grey hairs and bruise of many days, do challenge you to trial of a man."

Claudio baulks. "I will not have to do with you, old man."

Leonato's face twists, scarlet. Benedick catches his shoulder before he can strike Claudio. "Do not burden yourself, good signior. There are younger, more-abled men willing to take the challenge."

Claudio looks at Benedick with betrayal while Leonato frowns, "Who?"

Before Benedick can speak, John steps forward. "You will meet me, oh valiant Claudio. Or shall it be said you fear a dog's bite?"

Claudio puffs out his chest, regaining some of his colour. "I defeated you before, bastard. It shall be a pleasure to do so again."

Pedro exhales, speaking for the first time since the truth was revealed, his voice leaden. "This is a bad business, Claudio. Very bad. I know not what madness possesses you, but return to your senses at once. You have abused a sweet lady and claim it was done in my honour? This friendship I desire not. Act now as your conscience bids you, but know you act without my favour."

At this denouncement, Claudio's face crumples, looking much like a dog who has been forsaken by its master. John's lip curls. It will almost be a mercy to run the whelp through. Not that he has any intention of being merciful.

"Good Leonato," Pedro inclines his head to their host. "I shall ensure your daughter's name is cleared of blemish. I rue the trouble we have brought you. If I may, I would like to speak with your daughter to understand all that has passed."

Leonato turns to Pedro, a heaviness in his expression like he is regretting inviting the Prince and his cohorts into his home. But before he can answer the doors are thrown open again and a serving woman rushes inside.

"Oh, my lords! My lords! She is gone! She is gone!"

Leonato clasps the hand of the flustered woman. "Take breath, Ursula. What has happened?"

"The lady, Hero, sir — I left her alone for a few minutes to fetch some tea and when I returned she was gone. Gone. We have searched all over the house and cannot find her."

Leonato glances to the window, the howling wind rattling the frame, rain pelting against the shutters. His brow creases. "She would not have gone out in a storm."

Ursula grasps his sleeve, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Ooh, sir! After your harsh words I fear what she might do!"

Leonato's face drains of colour. John's pulse quickens, a chill through his veins, as instinct urges him to run, run, before he is too late.

Beatrice rounds on Leonato. "What did you say to her, uncle?"

Leonato does not answer, his eyes wide with fear, the years sinking into his haggard features.

John does not wait for more. He runs out the door, down the hall, out into the storm. The rain pummels down on him, the gale whipping at his clothes and hair. His heartbeat bruises his ribs, a desperate plea as he runs, runs, runs to Hero.

(Don't let him be too late.)

Chapter Text

Rain soaks John's clothes as he runs, cold biting his skin even as his body burns from the exertion, the wind lashes his face. He sprints across the garden, the downpour drenching him through. His shirt and breeches cling to him, creating an unpleasant friction that he gives no mind to, thoughts only of Hero.

The mausoleum comes into view. He rushes under the shelter, boots skidding on the slick paving. The gates are locked. Inside, its residents slumber on, undisturbed by the storm. He pants, heartbeat wild in his chest as he looks around. For a moment he fears he has guessed wrong and Hero is not here. Then his frantic gaze lands on a figure hunched in shadow. Mud splatters the hem of her dress, the white fabric dark and waterlogged. She hugs her knees to her front; curls limp around her face.

John crouches next to her. "Hero…?"

She shudders, lifting her head the merest fraction to meet his gaze over the tops of her knees. At the sight of her red-rimmed eyes, his stomach plummets.

Her voice scrapes from her throat, as if she has inhaled too much smoke, "It's not true."

He does not ask her what. "I know."

She exhales, squeezing her eyes shut. She closes the distance between them, burying her face in his chest. John tenses, unsure what to do. How should he comfort her? She appears so fragile, as if she were glass.

(This is his fault.)

"Why are you here?" She asks, voice muffled in his shirt.

He is stricken with a sense of nakedness, unrelated to the clothes plastered to his skin. "I came to find you."

Her arms tighten around him. "You left before."

John bows his head to hers, nails digging into his palms. He left her alone last night and then Claudio attacked her.

"I will kill Claudio."

It is as much a promise as if he took a knife to his palm and sealed it in blood.

Hero whimpers, a shiver wracking her frame.

"We should return to the house," John murmurs, gentling his voice. She shakes her head. "Hero… you are soaked. We must get you dry."

"No." She burrows deeper into his chest. "I will not go back there. I cannot."

John's ribs compress. He thought he could protect her from his pyre, but they burned her anyway.

He unpeels his coat, draping it around her. It is as wet as the rest of him, but it will grant her some protection from the elements. "Your innocence is known. Pedro takes your part. All will be righted. I swear."

Now, she raises her head, brows arched with a cynicism that looks wrong on her face. They both know how the smell of smoke lingers.

She sighs, collapsing against him. "It happened so fast…"

John swallows, tasting blood. A good reputation is never recovered as quick as it is lost. He folds her in his arms. "I vow I will mend this, Hero."

She draws back, expression void of her usual light. "This is not yours to mend."

The words sink through him and he trembles, unrelated to the rain. "I — " words scratch like a bone stuck in his throat. "I want to. Let me."

(This is his fault.)

She stares, head moving side-to-side. "No… No, I have asked too much of you."

He cups her cheek, cold beneath his palm. "You do not need to ask. I will do this. For you."

Hero closes her eyes, shivering.

He rubs her arms, trying to generate some heat. "Your skin is ice. Hero, we must return. You will get sick."

"I do not want to go back." She drops her head onto his shoulder, turning her face into his collar. "Let us run and be free of it all."

His breath hitches. Temptation sizzles through him. They could run, be outcasts together. But what life is in that? He will not condemn her to such a bitter fate.

(This is HIS fault.)

"You love your family. You will never be happy if you leave them like this."

Hero snuffles. "My father wishes me dead."

John resists the urge to track Leonato down and take him by the beard. Instead, he pulls Hero into a fierce hug. "Whatever he said, he regrets it. He railed at Pedro over your slander and would have duelled Claudio. I saw his terror when he learned of your disappearance. He loves you. I am not saying he deserves your forgiveness, but you need not be afraid. If I am not menace enough, then your cousin will eviscerate anyone who distresses you. She has cut Claudio already."

Hero huffs and John exhales, relieved to hear her amusement. "Dear Beatrice. She will eat all who wrong me."

"Then we should not worry her more, lest she lose her stomach. If you will not return for your sake, do so for mine. If I catch a cold, I will endeavour to die in order to guilt you most."

Miraculously, she laughs — it feels like absolution. "You would as well. It would be much like you to die for spite."

"Do not tempt me."

He helps her to stand. The rain has slowed to a drizzle. John clasps Hero's hand between his own, breathing hot air onto them, his lips almost brushing her fingers.

She watches him, droplets glistening in her lashes and on her cheeks, flushed from the cold.

He meets her gaze, "Hero…"

"HERO!"

John starts as Beatrice hurtles across the lawn to them, Benedick in pursuit.

Beatrice launches herself at her cousin, bundling her into her embrace. "Oh, my sweet!" Hero's gaze remains on John, a smile tugging across her lips as her cousin screeches. "You are freezing! We must get you inside!"

Without a backwards glance, Beatrice ushers Hero in the direction of the house, rushing past Benedick before he can speak. John watches them go.

"Lord, did you swim here?" Benedick asks him, doing a double-take. "Where is your coat?"

John rolls his eyes, stalking past him, back to the villa.

:-x-:

Hero is stripped and thrust into a hot bath as Ursula fusses with her clothes. At first, the water stings, but as her body adjusts to this new temperature, the ache soothes, and Hero reclines in the tub. She watches as her soulmarks ripple in the water, steam rising around her. Her fingers travel the familiar path, going from mark-to-mark.

John had not acknowledged their bond or made any mention to her drunken revelations when they spoke. He had not treated her with contempt either, but pity was almost as bad. She sighs and sinks lower in the bath, drawing her knees to her chest. Her dark locks swirl around her head like the flag of her homeland.

Why, why, why had she drunk as much as she did? What a fool she has made of herself. What must John think of her?

She closes her eyes, the rhythmic lapping of the water lulling her into a trance. She imagines that yesterday's sun never rose, that she is still safe in bed, snug under the covers, dreaming that John could love her, and Claudio never touched her.

:-x-:

John changes into dry clothes. He has to borrow a shirt from Conrade (an extensive wardrobe had not been prioritised when he rebelled against his brother). As he does so he sees again the terrible, ugly slurs Claudio must have assailed Hero with. The sight of them sickens him. John wants to flay the skin from his bones, to take a knife and carve out the words.

To think, if he had been less of a coward and checked his marks last night he might have spared Hero this pain.

If he had never left her alone in the courtyard —

If he had not lied to Claudio —

If he had kept his distance from her to begin with —

But one thing John knows all too well… he cannot change the past. All he can do now is fix this mess he created.

He receives separate requests from Pedro and Leonato to attend them once he is able. Pedro at least forgoes the armed escort this time around but considering his brother's earlier accusations John is inclined to make him wait. (It is only polite that he first gratifies their host).

Once again John is led into a room. There, he finds both Leonato and Antonio seated around a small table. At his entrance, the conversation cuts-off.

Leonato gives a nervous smile, the same as the one he offered at their first meeting. "Ah! My lord. Please. Join us."

He beckons John to the empty chair before them. John abides, his face smoothed into an impassive mask. This is the first time Leonato has sought him and John knows it is not for the pleasure of his company. He has already faced one interrogation today and resigns himself to another.

Leonato fumbles with a cup. "Wine, my lord?"

"Thank you, but not at this time." John wants to keep his head clear for what is no doubt to come.

Leonato does not press, filling his own cup and swigging from it with a speed that speaks of his stress. Antonio, John notes, also opts to remain sober, levelling the younger man with a discerning look. John meets his gaze, revising his assessment of the man.

Leonato sets down his cup, haggard features shifting into a sombre expression. "My lord, I understand you are not of many words — and I find I am exhausted with talking. Let us be frank. What are your intentions towards my daughter?"

John does not react. He anticipated this question. Between Claudio's allegations, their subsequent strife, and John then running after Hero, there is enough to implicate them without the false rumours going around. He has given this a lot of thought since delivering the shivering Hero into her cousin's arms and he sees only one path that will shield her from further scandal.

He leans forward, soulmarks burning. "To marry her. If she will have me — and with your blessing, good signiors."

Leonato and Antonio glance at each other, then break into relieved smiles. John's chest loosens and he breathes.

"Well," Leonato exhales, eyes twinkling. "I think that can be arranged."

:-x-:

Beatrice hastens down the corridor. Ursula had compelled her to change her frock, fretting about her catching her death. A fuss over nothing; Beatrice's dress was only a little damp from searching for Hero in the rain. Not nearly as bad as her poor cousin. Beatrice's heart caught in her throat when she saw the pale and shivering form of Hero, folded in Don John's coat.

Her pulse still has not slowed. She resists the urge to sprint to her cousin's chambers and turns the corner.

Benedick kicks-off from the wall he was leaning against, "Lady Beatrice."

Beatrice halts, staring at the man before her. "...Signior Benedick."

He moves towards her, slowly, as much like she were a deer at risk of spooking as he were at risk of being spooked himself. "How does your cousin?"

Beatrice thinks of Hero, her skin white as snow and just as cold as she hurried her cousin back to her chambers. Her eyes unfocused, in a dream-like state as Beatrice forced her on. She barely said one word except an assuring "Beatrice…"

She casts her gaze down, certain some of her anxieties must show in her face. "Very ill."

Benedick takes a step closer, bending his head to better look at her. "And how do you?"

She meets his gaze, shoulders falling along with all pretence. "Very ill too"

His face is sympathetic, eyes as soft as his curls. Beatrice's gut twists but otherwise she feels none of the prickling need to escape or deflect with a joke as she used to when people would pity her over her parents. There is something different about Benedick. She wants to share her grief with him, not hide it.

She rubs her arm dark letters itching under her sleeve.

Benedick speaks, "The Prince has discharged Claudio from his service and he has been banished to his uncle's house."

Beatrice scoffs, finding anger a more comfortable fit. "I hope Don John kills him."

Benedick's gaze flickers to the ground. He draws in a sharp breath and squares his shoulders, lifting his head. "I hope your cousin will mend. As I hope… you will as well."

"Hero is stronger than she seems," Beatrice tells him, as she tells herself.

"Yes… I have no doubt… if she has half the strength of her cousin… she will be well."

He looks at her, emotions she is afraid to name undulate in his eyes of January sky. Her windpipe tightens.

"Beatrice…" he begins and falters.

She leans forward, "Yes?"

He clears his throat. "I must tell you — I want to tell you — "

He does not finish, for they hear Antonio shouting, "Help! Help! It is Hero! Help!"

:-x-:

Ursula has to force Hero from the bath, clucking that she will resemble a prune if she remains any longer. The gentlewoman helps Hero redress into clean clothes, humming as she combs her hair. Hero can almost pretend nothing bad has happened as the bruises on her arms are concealed under cotton sleeves. Almost.

Ursula finishes styling her hair and Hero unwinds a pale ribbon from her trinket box, admiring the silk between her fingers. After a pause, she ties it around her wrist, just as she has each day since the mark of 'unlovable' first appeared.

There is a knock at the door and Ursula answers it; one of the servants has come to bid Hero to her father's side. She is still, heart quivering like a bird trapped in her ribcage. She knows she has to face him. She thought Beatrice might be at her side when she did so, but her cousin has disappeared again (Hero can guess to whom).

She recalls John's assurances, pressing her hand to her breast, and calms her breathing. She looks at herself in the mirror. No longer the delicate flower her father raised her to be. Now, she has thorns. She thinks of Beatrice. She thinks of John, his mark warm beneath her touch. Her mother named her Hero. She will not be cowed.

Hero walks through the villa, her head held high. Those she passes send her sympathetic glances. Hero steels her shoulders. Their mouths do not move but she hears their whispers all the same, a rising susurrus in her ears. She enters the room where her father waits without knocking, freezing when she sees John in conversation with him and her uncle.

John breaks from the conversation, standing to meet her. Hero's pulse skitters, a sudden self-consciousness tingling through her skin, causing her arms to hang limp at her sides. She looks between the three most important men in her life and wonders what they could be discussing.

"Daughter!" Her father smiles — such a contrast to their last meeting. He rises from his chair, bustling over to her.

Hero holds herself still, glancing first to John and then Antonio. Both men tense, watching the scene unfold.

Her father touches her cheek with gentle fingers, his gaze soft. "My beloved child… you have been much misused… and I, in part, responsible. Forgive an old man his follies. I was blinded, but now I see what has always been true. In virtue, you outshine us all. My greatest honour is you."

This is the father Hero knows, the one who has held her, cherished her, loved her since birth. Her eyes warm and she blinks, not willing to break into tears again. When he moves to hug her, she does not recoil, instead returning his embrace. Over his shoulder, she sees John and Antonio relax.

"I have news that shall brighten this bleak day and gild it forever in your memory," her father tells her excitedly, turning to the others. "But I will let you tell her, son."

Her father steps back and John takes his place, an awkwardness to his motions, hands flexing at his side, panic in his gaze. Hero does not understand the reason, but his fear is palpable, prickling the hairs on the back of her neck, her own palms breaking into sweat, her heart beating the same nervous beat.

"Hero…" he starts, a tremor in his voice, normally so collected. "I have — have treated with your father — and he has honoured me with the right — the right to ask — if you will — if you will marry me and take me for — for your husband?"

Hero stares, his words settling in her mind as gentle as the fall of snow…

And then, nothing.

:-x-:

John sees Hero's eyes roll into the back of her skull and lunges to catch her, heart vaulting into his throat.

Leonato and Antonio rush to his side, all of them looking down at the unconscious Hero cradled in his arms

"Oh dear…" Leonato glances at John, releasing an anxious titter, "I dare make her answer — yes."

John stares at him a beat then looks to Antonio. "Call for help."

Antonio rushes for the door and John gazes down into Hero's lifeless expression. He swallows; inside him the wild beast whines.

This is  his  fault.

Chapter Text

Hero stirs into waking. Voices murmur above her. She stares into darkness before it occurs to open her eyes. When she does, she finds Margaret beside her, a smile flooding her features. "Oh lady, you are determined to frighten us."

Hero blinks, her mind slow to comprehend. She notices she is laid out on a lounge chair.

"Is she awake?" Beatrice darts into view. "Hero, how do you feel?"

Hero pushes herself into a sitting position. For a second the room swims, then at last it steadies. "Ahh… confused. What… happened?"

"Don John proposed and you fainted," Margaret chirps.

Hero thumps back into the cushions. "What?"

"Really, Margaret?" Beatrice mutters.

Margaret chatters on, "You swooned straight into his arms. It was fortunate he was not on one knee. The poor man looked terrified when I arrived. Was the thought of marriage to him so distressing?"

Hero groans, pulling a cushion over her face to smother herself.

"Margaret, do not tease her," Beatrice scolds, rubbing her cousin's arm. "Hero has been much taxed and borne it with commendable strength. This shock was her limit."

Hero sits upright. "Where is he?"

"Beatrice shooed him out, along with your father and uncle. I have seldom seen a man more pitiable than Signior Benedick after suffering Beatrice's taunts—" the latter glares at Margaret but she goes on, unperturbed, "—but a drowned kitten could not have produced a more sorrowful sight than Count John. Though his reputation is treacherous, I do believe him sincere in his devotion to you, my lady."

"I must speak to him." Hero scrambles to rise — a sudden dizziness and Beatrice's hand on her shoulder prevents her.

"Not until you have eaten something. Lest you collapse again." Her cousin gestures to the platter of cold food placed on the table next to her.

Hero slumps and begrudgingly picks at the plate, snapping the grapes from their stems.

"Borachio tells me Don John has a sour humour but he is not violent in his cups and would never strike a woman," Margaret says "He is proud, stubborn… calculating… and vindictive. Borachio likes him a lot. But Borachio likes money. He says Don John is as generous with his friends as he is ruthless with his enemies."

"And you think these the qualities of a good husband?" Beatrice asks sceptically.

Margaret shrugs, mouth curling in a sly grin. "That, I cannot measure. But… if a prince, who looked like he, asked me to wed… I would not hesitate to the marriage bed."

Hero chokes, coughing up grapes.

Margaret cackles. "Ah ha! I see your blush, lady! You agree!"

"Fie, Margaret!" Beatrice snaps. "She cannot breathe!"

Margaret holds out a water cup as a peace offering and Hero drinks, the cool liquid soothing her throat.

Margaret waits until Hero has finished before speaking again, "Borachio also tells me Don John mopes like a lovelorn pup over you."

Hero's cheeks heat, a fluttering in her stomach, and she seizes her companion's arm. "Mercy. Please. I need to speak to him." She looks at them both. "Where is he?"

:-x-:

John treads through the orchard, the ground soft beneath his boots, grass damp from the shower. He hears the voices of labourers not far off, coming to the end of their working day, but no one disturbs him here. Far from his brother, his followers, and their hosts, John is free to ruminate in solitude.

The sky has cleared, the downpour passing as quickly as it started. Raindrops glisten on the leaves, a gentle breeze ruffling the trees, stirring a light, sparkling spray. The air is crisp with the purifying scent which arises after a storm. He does not know the hour, but the evening sun peaks from beneath lilac clouds, casting Messina in its amber gaze.

As he nears the bower where the honeysuckles bloom, a sweetness tangs the air. Hidden within the shrubs, he finds a bench to rest himself. He bows his head, reflecting on all that has transgressed since he stepped foot in Messina, and closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, Hero is there, as if conjured from his dishevelled mind. He jolts upright, "Hero."

She smiles, colour pouring into the world. "John… the gardeners saw you walking here."

He stares at her, aware of a desperate burning in his chest. Will he always feel this breathless around her? Or will in time the sensation ease into something softer… but no less devastating?

She hesitates, like a fawn hearing a twig break, then in a rush seats herself beside him. There is a pause as they gaze at one another, neither speaking, then both at once —

"Are you—"

"I must—"

They break-off.

"Your pardon." He gestures for her to continue, "My lady?"

"No, no. You first. Please."

He shifts, the bench creaking beneath him. His eyes flit around the orchard before landing back on her. "Are you… well?"

Her smile is bright if nervous. "Much better, thank you." Her gaze drops to her lap, fingers un-lacing and re-lacing. "I… I owe you an apology for… for scaring you as I did. This day has been… strenuous. And I had little eaten."

"You do not need to apologise. I should not have sprung such a…" he grimaces "...thing on you."

She dips her chin, sable curls curtaining her eyes. "It was… a shock. With how our conversation ended last night… I did not expect an offer from you."

Guilt twists its sickle inside him. "My handling of last night was… poor. I acted like a cad. It is I who must beg your pardon."

Hero hides her cheeks. "Ohh, no. You were not — I was far from my best self. If you can excuse me then I, of course, pardon you."

John swallows. "That is… not all I must apologise for." He averts his gaze as he speaks, "It… it was my fault Claudio attacked you. Because of the lie I told him — about Pedro being in love with you."

"John." Now, Hero's voice comes crystalline, "You are not responsible for Claudio's actions."

"But I knew what he was." John stands, shaking out his arms, his body buzzing as he starts to pace. "I knew the violence he was capable of. I goaded him, hoping he would injure himself in his temper. But he hurt you instead. He hurt you — and it was my fault. I blame him for his actions and, mark me, he shall pay dearly. But I blame myself too. This was my fault."

"John, look at me." Her voice compels his gaze to her own. There is so much kindness in her face, it tears something open deep inside of him and he stands, bleeding out before her. "There is every chance Claudio would have reacted as he did regardless of your misleading him. But if this troubles you then be assured, I absolve you of all guilt."

John thinks of the awful words inked over his skin, proof of her suffering at Claudio's hands. All because he abandoned her in that square. He shudders and drops to his knee before her, humble and penitent as he never was before. "Let me make this right. Marry me? I will be a good husband for you, I swear it."

Hero goes quiet, folding an arm around herself. She turns from him, a hollow note to her voice, "Be honest… do you ask for my hand because of what Claudio did? What he said?"

John considers her, remembering again the shivering wraith he found at the mausoleum, the whites of her eyes as she fainted. "Marriage will quell any rumours against you and restore your good name."

"Then I am an obligation! You feel honour-bound to offer for me."

Her voice quivers and John realises his mistake, lunging forwards to grasp her hands. "No. Hero. I have made a mess of this. Please, allow me the chance to right it… I am no good with words."

Hero sniffs, "You have been honest with me."

"No. I have not. Hero. Please. I am bad at this."

Gold-green eyes glimmer as she meets his gaze, offering him a reassuring smile even as she trembles. "Proposals?"

"Love," he rasps and hears the hitch in her breath. The words spill out of him, "I never imagined myself married. I could not conceive a woman I would trust enough. Who would want to be a bastard's wife. At most, I expected a cold, political alliance. I never hoped for love. That is… until you. Hero…" he tugs on her hands, bestowing a kiss to each finger, as his confession claws out of him. "You are more than anyone… more than anyone I have ever met. You are the first kindness… the first true happiness I have known in a long time. I have spent most of my life surviving a world that wished me gone, out of sight. With you… I am alive, I am seen. And I see you too. There are practical reasons for our marriage, yes. But if you think I do not want you… that I do not love you… Hero, how could I not love you?"

She grips his hands, holding on to him. "But… but last night…"

"I — I was taken off-guard. I handled it badly. You called us soulmates, showed me that mark… I could guess what other cruelties littered your skin. You who are good, and kind, and gentle…" His thumb strokes her wrist. Gazing up at her, he expels a shuddering breath. "I did not want it to be true. Not because I do not want you. But because you should not want me. Not when it must be written all over your skin what a villain I am… a wretch, a bastard. Hero… you cannot want me. You should not."

Hero untangles her hands from his — stopping his heart — and leans forward to cup his jaw. "What should I not love? A man who respects me? Who values my word? Who is good and gentle in his own quiet way?" Her fingers glide over his beard, brushing his eyebrows, and combing back the hair from his face. "Many times have I been warned against you, John. I do not care for the words of others. It is you who has won my heart. No tricks, no disguises. Soulmates or not. I want you. I choose you."

John holds onto her forearms, anchoring himself to her. "I do not wish you to be hurt. It is not easy loving a bastard."

"Really? Because it feels like breathing."

The burning in his chest intensifies, but it is not pain he feels. "You are.. impossible."

She laughs, warmth filling the cracks inside him. "You are a fine one to talk." She rests her forehead to his own. "Hear me, and know I am wholly sober as I say this — I love you, John, my villain, my wretch. I love you."

He stares at her, mesmerised and half-believing, "Can this be?"

Her eyes crinkle as her smile spreads. "It can. It is."

His arms encircle her waist, lifting her from the bench as he stands. He kisses her crown, her nose, the dimples in her cheeks. "Marry me. Make me your husband. Let me serve you, love you, be at your side always."

Her laughter tickles his beard as she leans into him. "Yes. YES. I will marry you. I will be your wife. But kiss me first, please. Do not make me wait any longer."

John cradles her face, taking a moment to appreciate her loveliness, the anticipation in her eyes, then — he seals his mouth to hers.

For all her impatience, Hero's response is slow, tentative. She watches him through half-lidded eyes, attempting to mirror his movements. Heat curls inside him at the thought that he is her first kiss and he restrains his baser instincts in order to ease her into it, adjusting her head to a better angle, taking care not to overwhelm her. Her lashes shutter, a soft whimper escaping her. It hits like a punch to the gut and takes all of John's strength not to lick the sound from her.

Despite his care, it is Hero who increases their pace, her fingers digging into his shoulders, gaining confidence as she catches his bottom lip, sucking it between her own, the barest scrape of teeth. I am here, she seems to say, I love you, come, come, be with me.

His hand sinks into her curls, a gentle rhythm building between them like sea to shore, their mouths meet again, again, again. John's world narrows to Hero, her touch, her taste. She kisses him like he is air and she has been holding her breath. Like she has never kissed anyone and only wants to kiss him. She kisses like she loves him and is going to stay.

And John loves her. He loves her. He loves her. He loves her.

:-x-:

"We should — we should tell — tell your father," John pants, delirious with Hero sweet on his tongue, the friction of her hips where she straddles him.

Her smile stretches against his lips and she tightens her thighs, pushing him further into the bench. "Let him stew a while more. I have been waiting for this far longer."

And, who is John to refuse her?

:-x-:

When they do return to the villa — hair patted down and their clothes smoothed — the apricot sky is bleeding into crimson, the last droplets of golden sun trickling into the hillside.

Margaret is the first to pounce on them. She takes in her mistress's flushed cheeks and swollen lips, and throws Hero a catlike grin. Hero's blush deepens and the serving woman cackles, flinging her arms around her

"Many blessings on you, pet." She kisses her close to the mouth and pulls back, casting a critical eye over John. She flicks her finger out at him. "Be good to her." Her lips curve, eyebrows raised with meaning. "In all things."

"Margaret," Hero hisses, flustered.

Margaret laughs, unabashed. "Oh, God send every one their heart's desire!"

She runs cackling down the hall. With a sinking feeling, John realises Borachio will soon know all and be around to taunt him. He restrains a groan.

Hero's fingers touch his wrist and she peers at him with concern. The weight lifts from his chest and he entwines his hand in hers, offering a reassuring half-smile.

They find Hero's father next and hasten him aside. Leonato is ecstatic upon hearing their news and hugs them both in quick succession. John throws a panicked glance to Hero over her father's shoulder and she smiles, eyes sparkling. John's breath catches and he thinks for that look he could bear anything.

Leonato seats them in pride of place at the banquet table and toasts their betrothal over supper. The announcement is met with applause, though John notes the confused and subdued reactions of the soldiers who find themselves celebrating the fortunes of their vanquished foe. (Claudio is absent. John heard he had been banished to his uncle's home. Luckily for the whelp. For John is not sure he could restrain from claiming that pound of flesh ahead of their scheduled duel.)

With a broad grin, Pedro raises his own cup. "My felicitations to you both. A most worthy and virtuous bride you have secured yourself, brother. Good lady, I will be honoured to call you my sister. I wish you many long years of happiness together."

Hero beams at Pedro, thanking him, and there are cheers all around. Loudest amongst them are Antonio and Borachio, the latter hollering and drumming the table to his companion Conrade's chagrin.

John nods his appreciation to Pedro. By acknowledging Hero as his kin the Prince will further silence the tongues against her. It does not resolve their troubled past or recent conflict, nor Pedro's earlier accusations, but John does not allow these thoughts to poison his good mood. For now, at least, the brothers are reconciled.

After supper, many approach John to offer their congratulations, shaking his hand and clapping his back. Amiable gestures which John accepts with civility, aware that these same sycophants will have spat 'bastard' and 'traitor' behind his back, if not to his face. He keeps glancing back to Hero — smiling radiantly as her friends and family fuss over her — and the old anger eases its claws from his chest. She is all who matters.

John watches as Pedro approaches Hero, welcomed with a warm smile. A throat clears and he jerks around to find Beatrice before him.

She levels him with a considering look. "So… we are to be cousins."

John does not baulk, though her sharp gaze has his hairs standing on end. "So we are. I would offer my condolences but they would not be sincere."

Beatrice's mouth twitches and she holds out her hand. He stares at it a moment then goes to shake it. Her hand closes around his in a vice — tight enough to make a lesser man wince, but not John. He is accustomed to others' intimidation tactics and he holds Beatrice's gaze.

"You will treat her well." It is not a question.

"No less than she deserves." It is a promise.

Beatrice loosens her grip and circulation returns to John's hand. She steps into him, her voice low and sweet. "Do not kill Claudio too quick."

"It was never my intention." For a second, he allows her glimpse the devil in him.

Beatrice's eyes flash in recognition and she smiles. "God bless you, coz."

She leaves him, heading for Benedick. John suspects there will be another announcement soon. He weaves through the crowd to Hero's side. Her bright gaze immediately alights on him and she slips her hand into his own.

"My lord," she coos.

John feels his smile grow in answer to her own. "My lady."

She lifts her free hand to his cheek, thumb nestling in the corner of his mouth. "I have thought you handsome since I first saw you, but… oh, yours is my favourite smile."

John takes her hand, pressing his lips to the centre of her palm. "It is for you… because of you."

Hero beams.

"Oi! Give her a proper kiss!" Someone bellows, sounding a lot like Borachio.

John tenses as the crowd takes up the chant, but Hero laughs, leaning into him.

"Go on, cousin!" Beatrice calls. "Spare the man from speech!"

"Come, brother," Pedro joins the chorus with irritating cheer. "Cherish the lady!"

"We do not have to," Hero murmurs.

Fondness warms through him at this concession and John cups her jaw — hope and joy illuminates her eyes — then, as he did in the orchard, he leans down and kisses her. The crowd erupts into hoots and cheers. He blocks them from his mind, lost in the sensation that is Hero as she melts into him. There is no one else but her and John is home.

:-x-:

Beatrice watches Hero bounce before Don John, skirts swishing with each animated gesture. Colour blooms in her cheeks and she is smiling with a happiness Beatrice feared she would not see again after Claudio's assault. Don John is his usual stoic self, but Beatrice observes a softness to features as he gazes at Hero, leaning into her like a sunflower does the light.

"They are a strange couple," Benedick muses next to her.

Beatrice hums. "As strange as the thing I know not."

And yet…

"And yet…" Benedick voices her thoughts, his tone wondrous and wistful. "They look happy."

"They do," Beatrice sighs.

"I think he loves her."

There is little doubt about it. Don John is reserved but not imperceiveable; anyone who witnessed his surly countenance upon his arrival can see the change Hero has brought out in him. Like sunlight breaking through dark clouds.

"Yes," Beatrice's shoulders slump, "I think he will love her for the rest of his life."

Benedick looks at her with kind understanding. "Not your choice for your cousin?"

"No one is good enough for my Hero," Beatrice says, matter-of-fact. She lowers her lashes, gazing at the couple over the rim of her wine glass. "I would have kept her with me forever. But her heart is meant for more… she is to love and be loved by more than myself. And she loves him. Truly loves him."

"She loves you still," Benedick assures her.

Beatrice casts him a wry smile, swirling her cup. "I know. Hero is unwaveringly faithful. But she will have more to love soon… a husband… and children…" She takes a swig of wine. "Ughh, what maudlin is this? Don John's melancholy seeks to root in me now his betrothal has ousted it from its master. Come, come, let us speak of nothing but mirth."

Benedick springs to life, flourishing a bow. "Do you require a jester, madam?"

"Yes," she regards him, a stuttering behind her ribcage as the corners of her mouth rise. "Yes, I believe I do."

Benedick swipes her hand and kisses her knuckles. "Then… I am yours." Beatrice's breath catches and he smiles. "Impossible slanders and all."

Beatrice laughs, breathless and on the brink of tears. "Good." She leans into him, not caring that they are in a crowded room as she clasps his hand. "Good."

Chapter Text

Gazing at him from beneath her lashes, curls falling around her face, Hero's fingers hook in John's sleeve. "Will you walk with me in the garden?

John, who would follow her anywhere, is all too eager to escape the prying eyes of the breakfast room and steal a moment alone with her. (There is too much intrigue around the wronged maid and the bastard in love).

They stroll through the hedgerows along the winding path, Hero's hand nestled in his arm, while Ursula chaperones from a respectful distance, out of earshot. The birds fill the bushes with their morning song, butterflies and bees flitting past them. Somewhere a dog barks.

"You duel Claudio today," Hero murmurs.

"I do." He observes the anxious twist to her mouth. "Does this worry you?"

She turns her wide doe eyes upon him. "Of course it does."

He lifts her hand, bestowing a kiss to each finger. "You need not fear. I can handle Claudio."

"I feared for you even before I knew you and I shall not stop now that I do." She presses her own delicate kiss to his wrist. "You have my heart and all my confidence. But Claudio has defeated you before. You are sure you will be well?"

"That was before." He trails his knuckles down her cheek, admiring her blush. "Then, I was fighting for myself. Today, I fight for you."

Hero inhales, leaning into his touch. "There is something I would ask you…"

"Whatever it is, you have but to name it."

"Spare Claudio," she implores. "Do not kill him."

John jerks backwards, "You are not in earnest?" His eyes rove her face, alarmed to see that she is. "After what he did to you." Outrage scorches his chest. "That swine attacked you, bruised you, called you the worst of names — it cannot stand. It shall not stand. I will dispatch him and with his blood clear any stain upon you."

"As if one stain can clear another," Hero utters, rubbing her arm — an arm John knows to be fading into a mottled brown owing to Claudio's temper.

John's anger flares at this reminder. "He is a WORM and undeserving of your kindness."

Hero reaches for him, hands curling around his sleeve. "Do not mistake me. I would be glad to be free of Claudio and never think of him again. But if you kill him in my name, I fear I will have no peace." She draws back, fingers wrinkling her skirts. "I think he is the lowest of men… but he is someone's son, someone's nephew. There has already been so much loss in the recent conflicts. I do not desire another death."

John swallows, sore to hear Hero's mind against his own; how she condemns the recent conflicts, of which he was chief perpetrator. Although, she is not wrong. His men had been slaughtered — and for what? So many killed for his lost cause and while they rot in shallow graves, he is betrothed to Hero. Where is the justice in that?

John grits his teeth as guilt clashes with loathing, a tempest roiling inside him. "Why should I show him mercy? He showed none when he butchered my men."

"Oh John…" Hero's face falls with a sympathy as agonising as staring into the sun. "I understand, I do. But killing Claudio will not restore them."

John gazes at the ground, remembering a different field, blood staining the grass…

"Then I will avenge them."

I will avenge you.

Hero's hand presses on his shoulder, curls shifting as she shakes her head. "All it will be is another death in this cycle of violence. Jesus taught us to turn the other cheek. Revenge, it is not Christian."

John lurches from her, voice dripping with scorn. "Do not seek to sway me with talk of God or Christian kindness. Remember what I am."

Hero stills and John tenses, wondering if she will forsake him now he has shown his fangs, reminded her of the blot on his soul.

But Hero sighs, reaching for his hand and leaning into his arm. "Then do not do this for God. Do this for me. Please, John."

"I am doing this for you," his voice cracks and he clasps her hand, willing her to understand. "If I allow Claudio to live then he will be free to spread his slander."

"If he is disgraced, who will listen to him? No one of note or whose opinion I care for. Let him spread his lies, he will tarnish his own character worse than mine."

"The world does not share your goodness. You do not know—"

"No." Hero snatches her hand from him. "Not from you." She thrusts her finger into his sternum. "I will not hear it from you." Her expression splinters. "John… I know you want to protect me. Do you think I do not want to protect you as well? Think. What will they say when the former traitor slays their noble war hero? The soldier who overthrew him in battle, a man well-liked and celebrated? John, they already abhor you and resent your engagement to me. Do not give them further reason."

Her words cut clear and firm, burrowing like a knife in his chest. He stiffens. He has not thought of this. He cares so little for the opinion of sheep. But Hero is right. Claudio may have lost Pedro's favour, but he is still popular amongst the men. They would not hesitate to side with him over a traitor, a bastard.

If John kills Claudio, they will call for his head. Even Pedro's defence may not prove enough; there were those who whispered the Prince was too lenient with his treasonous half-brother. Those whispers could easily become shouts. Any victory will be viewed as cheating on John's part. They might even go as far as to accuse him of orchestrating the whole thing so he had an excuse to call Claudio out. They might accuse Hero of being his accomplice in the wicked scheme.

What's more, Claudio is the heir of a rich and powerful house. There would be repercussions. John could destroy his new life with Hero before it had begun. He would willingly burn to see Claudio fall, but he will not risk Hero.

With considerable effort, he unclenches his jaw, tasting iron. "I take your point."

Hero slides her hand over his fist, coaxing it to uncurl until she can entwine their fingers. "I believe in you, John. You will duel Claudio and defeat him — soundly and honourably."

John looks at her, letting her anchor his turbulent emotions. "He will not show me the same mercy."

Pain flickers across Hero's face and she squeezes his hand. "Do what you must. But only if you must."

He considers her. "You understand… if he lives, Claudio could hurt someone else."

Hero takes a trembling breath. "I know… I know… and I pray he never does… but I believe in second chances. I believe…" She touches his cheek, "I believe in redemption."

John exhales, leaning into her touch. He is quiet for several beats of his heart, loud in his ears, then he forces the impossible words from his throat. "I will do as you wish. I will… spare Claudio's life."

The words are tar on his tongue. The temptation to take them back is immense. But Hero combs back his hair, kissing his brow in benediction. "Thank you."

John exhales and envelopes her in his arms, savouring the feel of her against him. Despite his assurance to Hero, he knows Claudio is an excellent swordsman. He will be a difficult opponent, but John will not underestimate him again. He holds Hero for as long as he can before Ursula clears her throat from where she stands, admiring the roses.

Hero pulls back. "I have something for you." She unties the ribbon from her wrist, fastening it around John's own. "It is tradition for a lady to bestow a favour upon her knight before a bout."

The corners of his lips unfurl as he looks at the ribbon. "Thank you, my lady."

He lifts her hand, intending to kiss the strip of skin the ribbon always covered, but freezes when he spies the dark scrawl of a soulmark. Gently manoeuvring her wrist to inspect the mark, he is speared by 'unlovable'.

"It is not true." He looks up into Hero's beautiful face as she speaks, voice warm and full of tenderness. "You see, it curls right over my pulse. These veins lead straight to my heart. I was always going to love you, John."

His chest constricts. His thumb arcing over the dark letters, his eyes locked with hers. "You are more than I deserve."

Hero smiles, rising on her toes to kiss him. "You are exactly who I want."

:-x-:

Hero has witnessed duels before, at the tourneys her father sometimes hosted, men fighting for sport. But this duel is for honour. There is a chance one man will lose his life today. Hero prays not.

Her father has tried to keep the crowds from the garden, but men and women gather at the edges, leaning out of windows and doorways. Hero stands on the sidelines, wedged between her uncle and Beatrice.

Next to them, Benedick explains the code duello. He gestures to the seconds, whose purpose is to attempt a reconciliation between the opponents (as if that were possible). John has chosen Conrade as his second, while Claudio has selected a man whose name Hero does not know. From the grief that flickers across Benedick's features, Hero deduces that Claudio asked him first and was refused.

"Thank you, Signior Benedick," she says as he finishes his explanation. "For standing with us."

He looks at her, eyes gleaming, and offers a crooked smile. "It is my honour, lady."

Next to him, Beatrice shifts. They are standing closer than is proper, their arms pressed together, and Hero would bet her fortune they are holding hands. She meets her cousin's gaze and grins. Beatrice colours and fixes her focus ahead. Mirth and affection pool inside Hero like warm honey. When this is over and John is safe, she will be sure to tease and congratulate her cousin in equal measure.

Out on the lawn, the seconds depart, bereaving Hero of all happy feelings as John and Claudio take their positions. She clutches Beatrice's hand, pressing the other to her breast. Antonio wraps his arm around her shoulders. Across from them, a grave-faced Don Pedro surveys the opponents — his brother versus his former companion. With rigid shoulders, he calls out and the duel begins.

Both swordsmen are quick, meeting in a clash of silver. Hero tracks the blades, relying on Benedick's commentary to understand who has the advantage. This is her first time seeing either man duel. Claudio's skill has been much commended, while she has heard little of John. Both appear evenly matched, but as the duel continues, Hero begins to distinguish the differences in style.

Claudio takes the offensive, putting the most power behind his blows, forcing his opponent back. In comparison, John goes on the defensive, more calculating in his strikes. Hero thinks of the intellect it took to plot a revolt and hopes John has a plan (she does not think of his defeat at Claudio's hands). If his life were not at stake, she might better appreciate the grace of John's movements, the power in his figure, lithe and agile. He is magnificent and her pulse quickens from more than fear.

Several times, her breath catches as John narrowly fends off Claudio's vicious assault. Her heart pounds in her throat, gripping Beatrice's hand (if her cousin winces, she covers it well).

"He is losing focus," Benedick observes.

Hero whips to him then back to the match, afraid to lose a second. "WHAT? WHO?"

"Claudio… Don John means to tire him. He is goading him into making a mistake."

Sure enough, Claudio's movements grow more agitated, his strikes furious and less precise. Shouts arise from the onlookers, a cacophony of both men's names, unclear who is favourite amongst them.

"COME ON, LAD!" Antonio bellows. "WHIP HIM DOWN!"

Hero murmurs a prayer.

Like the strike of a snake, John's blade slices through Claudio's sleeve, scarlet seeping from the wound. Enraged, Claudio snarls and unleashes a volley of attacks upon his opponent. But now he is unbalanced and John takes the offensive, pressing his advantage.

Hero watches the exchange of blows, so mesmerised by their back-and-forth, that when the end comes, she almost misses it.

There's a clang and Claudio's sword flies from his hand, in the same disarming motion John sweeps his legs from under him, causing Claudio to topple flat on his back. John does not allow him to rise, pinning his injured arm under his boot

He levels his sword at his throat. "Yield."

John's voice rings through the courtyard, a hush having fallen as everyone strains to hear their exchange. Claudio thrashes, face contorting in fury as he spits something unheard. Hero can guess what, a burning across her skin.

"Yield," John says again, voice low and forbidding.

He applies pressure to Claudio's injured arm, the fallen man howling with pain and rage. Hero sucks in a breath, nausea coursing through her. Will she have to watch John kill a man?

He leans down, muttering something to Claudio, who stiffens, scowling at John as if he could incinerate him with glare alone. There is a long pause in which Hero's heart buffers against her chest, then Claudio sags. She hears his petulant reply, "I yield."

The garden erupts; Hero cannot tell if they are cheers of triumphant or cries of outrage. She does not care, hurtling across the lawn towards John as he steps away from Claudio.

"JOHN! JOHN! JOHN!" She leaps upon him, chanting his beautiful name.

He chuckles, worn and relieved, burying his face in her curls. "Hero."

His breath is warm, tickling the nape of her neck. She cradles his head, crushing her mouth to his. Fear and desire eddies in her stomach, humming through her blood and into her lips as she kisses him. Her clever, reckless love. Her knight and knave. John. John. John. Her wild heart.

"Hero… Hero!" Beatrice's voice shatters the moment.

Hero breaks from exaltation, parting from John, lungs pumping hard to work air back into her. She frowns at the interruption.

Beatrice's face is half amusement, half exasperation. "Don John has valiantly won a duel in your honour. Do not despoil yourself now before the eyes of all."

Hero opens her mouth to tell Beatrice to mind her own affairs, but John speaks first. "She is right."

His voice is little more than a husk, mixed with a touch of bashfulness to match the pink in his ears. His hands flex around her hips, where she has half climbed him, her ankles hugging his thighs. He lowers her back to the ground.

Hero pouts, clinging to John's shoulders, and glowering at Beatrice. "We are to be married soon."

Beatrice grins. "For the sake of my uncle's heart, let it be so."

Hero huffs, latching onto John's arms. He smiles at her bemused then turns to Beatrice, his features seeming to sharpen.

"I hope you don't mind, lady, I left you some sport."

Confused, Hero's head looks to him then back to Beatrice. Her cousin's eyes glint in the sun, her mouth widening to reveal her teeth. "Of course. We would not want it to be quick."

Hero does not like that at all, but her concerns are stolen as Antonio comes up behind them, clapping them both on the shoulders. "That was a fine duel, son. A fine show of swordsmanship."

Hero feels John tense under this praise, his face uncertain, and she squeezes his wrist.

"An honourable victory, my lord," Conrade commends, approaching them. "Only a fool would contend the result."

"A fine show, indeed," Benedick swaggers over. He holds out his hand to John. "Well done."

John regards the hand as if it were a viper.

"I am glad the better man won," Benedick adds, sounding sincere

John's eyebrows leap and he glances to Hero. She shrugs and, with reluctance, he accepts the proffered hand.

"Thank you." John says through his teeth, quick to let go of Benedick.

Beatrice steps forward, stealing Benedick's attention, if she had not always held it. "It is well that one man could rise to the challenge."

Benedick holds up his hands. "Our prince here had more right than I. But I did tax Claudio with foul words."

Beatrice tosses her curls. "Hmm, foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome."

"You frighten the word out of his right sense, so forcible is your wit," Benedick retorts and so, they go on.

Conrade casts a nervous glance between the pair, while Antonio chuckles. Hero meets John's gaze and he flicks her a knowing smile, rolling his eyes. She stifles a giggle. As they spar, Benedick and Beatrice draw nearer, seeming to forget the world around them, absorbed in the other. Their eyes are as heated as their words and Hero is tempted to make her own lecture on propriety.

On the other side of the garden, the wounded Claudio is hauled away by his comrades. Hero watches him go, content to know he will live on, dishonoured, and exorcises him from her mind. She notices Don Pedro staring in the same direction as her, sadness etched in his face. He glances to their little group with a look of confliction.

A gentle pressure on Hero's hand has her turning back to John. His brow knit with concern, a question in his dark gaze. She smiles, the truth of it fizzling through her, and she entwines her hand with his hand, letting him know everything is alright.

Chapter Text

"For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?"

"For them all together. "

- Benedick and Beatrice, Much Ado About Nothing, Act 5, Scene 2

"You have not thanked me," Pedro croons as he swings back in John's chair, boots kicked up on the desk.

John turns from the mirror to glare at him. "What could I have to thank you for."

Pedro cocks his head. "Besides your life and pardon?" He grins. "If not for me, you never would have come to Messina and met your fair bride."

John huffs, fiddling with his cuffs. "If it had been left to you she would have wed Claudio."

Pedro waves his hand. "Let us not dwell on what is not. This is your day, John."

John grimaces at his pallid reflection, insides slithering, wet and nauseous. God, do not let him be sick.

Pedro stands, coming up behind him in the mirror. "You look like you may swoon. If you do, aim to do so in reach of Hero. I am sure she will appreciate the poetic symmetry of you fainting into her arms."

"I will stab you," John wheezes.

"And get blood all over your formal jacket? Not today, I think."

"I hate you."

Pedro pats his shoulder. "I know."

John resists the urge to break his arm and instead adjusts his parting for the fourth time.

Pedro laughs. "You cannot truly be nervous? The lady adores you!"

John frowns, his mouth tasting of iron. He knows Hero loves him, but should she…? Will she one day wake up from the romantic vision she has crafted and realise she is miserable with her pariah husband? John does not think he can survive watching her fall out of love with him.

To Pedro, he mutters, "What? You do not think I coerced her into this match, villain that I am?"

Pedro hums. "You know what your problem is, John?"

A muscle in John's jaw ticks. "I am looking at one."

"You think too hard," Pedro informs, flicking his forehead.

John slaps his hand away. "Ugh, piss off."

Pedro brandishes his infuriating smile. "Lord, with such charms as yours, it is no wonder Hero fell for you." John shoves him and Pedro goes, chuckling. "Peace, John, peace. I only jest. The lady loves you very much. Her strange tastes, I fear, are a permanent affliction."

John heaves a long-suffering sigh. "Why did I allow you in here?"

"You were in too anxious a state to prevent me — stop fidgeting with your jacket, you look fine."

John yanks at the collar of his shirt, finding it stifling.

Pedro bats his hands away. "Just breathe, John. Breathe."

John scowls at him, but follows his lead, breathing in and out, in and out…

Pedro tuts, "You do make much ado about nothing."

John sags, heartbeat calming enough for him to retort, "God, I would prefer Benedick to you."

Pedro fixes him with a bland look. "That is a lie."

"It is," John admits, then backs away from his brother. "Why are you even here? Come to watch me suffer?"

"It is your wedding day, John. Is it inconceivable that I wish to see my brother happy?"

John arches an eyebrow.

Pedro huffs. "You may think I love you not… but despite your efforts to dethrone me, the attempt on my life, and the many, many faults of your character… sometimes… there are rare instances… when you are even… agreeable. And, with Hero, you have become… more agreeable."

John considers him, then says flatly, "Try again."

Pedro flashes a rueful smile and scratches his beard. "Also… after the fiasco with Claudio, Leonato is likely to bar me from returning and the wine here is divine. A familial tie shall serve me well."

John jabs a finger into his brother's chest. "For that, I will forever deny you the best wine."

Pedro's smile is catlike. "You shall have to marry Hero first."

John grunts and turns from his brother. His gaze lands on the ribbon still tied around his wrist. He touches the silk, picturing Hero — kindness overflowing in a honeysuckle smile, the brightness of her voice, the vibrant green and sun-warmed brown of her eyes transfixed as he speaks, coaxing free the words which clot in his throat, the jut of her chin and the growing boldness of her voice, her softness beneath his touch, a laugh like starlight, the flash of mischief in her gaze, so gentle, so patient, so beautiful…

He will not disappoint her now. His Hero… may he be worthy of her…

He will be worthy of her.

Resolved, he squares his shoulders. "I am ready."

:-x-:

Hero's nerves are all aflutter, she feels as if she might float away, feet barely on the ground. Joy suffuses through her and she twirls the skirts of her gown, feeling like a princess.

She shall soon be a princess. Married to Don John. Married to John.

Beatrice smooches Hero on the forehead, whispering assurances to her, before hurrying after Ursula and Margaret to take their places down the aisle. Hero's heart is light with love and she floats to her father's side, giddy with anticipation.

He smiles, ruddy cheeks appling beneath his grey beard. "You look beautiful, my daughter." He touches her cheek and falters, eyes wet. "You are… you have always been… my greatest blessing."

Hero's bottom lip trembles, warmth blossoming through her, heating her eyes. She throws her arms around the man who loved her first. "Thank you, father."

He holds her, savouring a moment's embrace before parting. Leonato gives his arm to her and they walk out together.

Sunlight pours over Hero, the air sweetened with the familiar fragrance of fruits and flora, the birds sing from their nests and the insects buzz their greetings. She has often traversed this path, between the villa and the chapel. Now floral garlands are strung across poles and pews have been placed outside, full of people. It seems as if all of Messina have come to see her wed.

She walks the aisle on her father's arm, taking in the familiar faces, these people she has known since she was a child, who have watched her grow and grown beside her. They smile as she passes, bowing their heads and murmuring kind wishes. Ahead of her, Beatrice, Ursula, and Margaret are lined up, clutching their bouquets. Hero mourns that her mother cannot be amongst them to watch her wed, but recognises the same maternal love and pride in the smiles of these women who raised her. She sucks in a breath, clutching the flowers in her hands, and feels her spirits strengthen, her nerves dispelling. She walks on.

There is her uncle, snivelling into his handkerchief. There is the Friar, looking on her as a shepherd does his lamb. There is Don Pedro, and Benedick, and Conrade…

And there is John, looking more groomed and prince-like than he ever has before. So handsome her smile bursts across her face. His hair is combed so neatly. She shall be sure to muss it later. She likes him a little wild.

He watches her approach with such a wonder it could make a girl's knees go weak. Like she is air and he cannot breathe.

Somehow, her legs hold, her feet seeming to move on their own accord, walking on air towards him. Their eyes never leave one another. She reaches the end of the aisle, standing before him. She has to restrain from bouncing on her toes, all ajitter. This moment feels like a dream. Like a memory. As if all her life has been leading her here… to John… to their future together…

Friar Francis begins the ceremony. Hero and John recite their lines, an echo of each other. He holds her gaze throughout and she sees in him a reflection of herself; the same love, the same devotion, the same promise.

"I do."

"I do."

Hero hardly hears the cheers and applause as the Friar pronounces them man and wife, already rushing to meet John, to meet her husband.

His lips finding hers, fitting together like two halves becoming whole. She sighs into him, here at last. After so much hope and heartache. To have her soul requited, her dearest wish fulfilled. This man is hers and she is his and ooh how she loves him.

Benedick clears his throat; the celebrations quieten down. Hero and John part, all heads turning to the Count of Padua. His eyes are only for Beatrice.

"Do not you love me?"

Hero smacks her hand against her husband's chest as if John might somehow miss the scene unfolding in front of them.

Beatrice freezes like a rabbit before the hunter as everyone turns to her. "Why… no. No more than reason."

Hero groans, bowing her head into John's arm.

Benedick flinches, his gaze darting from the crowd to Beatrice, and his voice goes shrill, "Why, then your uncle and the princes have been deceived. They swore you did."

"Do not you love me?" Beatrice demands, hands on her hips.

Benedick scoffs. "Why, no. No more than reason."

Beatrice bristles. "Why, then my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula are much deceived. For they did swear you did."

"They swore that you were almost sick for me."

"They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me."

The quarrelling pair go back-and-forth, protesting their love, to the amusement of the onlooking crowd. Hero shares a smile with John, feeling his laughter rumble through his chest. Her gaze meets with Don Pedro's and he winks at her.

"Come, cousin," Leonato chortles, interceding before further hearts can be broken, "I am sure you love the gentleman."

"And I'll be sworn that he loves her," Don Pedro declares, snatching a piece of parchment from Benedick's pocket. "For here's a paper written in his hand. A halting sonnet of his own pure brain, fashioned to Beatrice."

Benedick and Beatrice lunge for the paper, with Beatrice victorious.

Now, Hero plays her trump card, her sette bello. She darts to Margaret who, with a wink, hands her the paper that Beatrice was careless enough to leave in her dress pocket for the maid to find. Hero grins, wielding it with relish as she whirls on the tussling couple. "And here's another! Writ in my cousin's hand, stolen from her pocket, containing her affection unto Benedick."

Hero blocks Beatrice's attempt to grab the paper, handing it to the eager Benedick. The pair settle down to read their respective papers and Hero flies back to her husband, wrapping her arms around him.

"Imp," John murmurs, lips crooked against her temple.

As they read, twin smiles bloom across Benedick and Beatrice's faces.

"A miracle!" Benedick proclaims. "Here's our own hands against our hearts." He gives Beatrice a warm look. "Come, I will have thee. But, by this light, I take thee for pity."

There is a chorus of "Ooohhhs" from the crowd and Beatrice tosses her golden mane, "I would not deny you. But, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion — and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption."

"Peace!" Benedick stills her face in his hands, his smile surging forth. "I will stop your mouth."

The crowd hoots and cheers as the two of them finally kiss.

Some brides would be put-out if another stole their moment. But Hero, who thought she could not be happier, is effervescent to be sharing her wedding day with her beloved sister-cousin.

John kisses her brow. "Are you pleased, my mischievous wife?"

Hero near-vibrates at the epithet, beaming up at him. "Oh, ecstatic to see love's labour's won. And are you pleased, my trickster husband?"

"Pleased your cousin has found a way of ending Benedick's prattle."

Hero thumps his arm, no force behind the blow. "She is your cousin now — which makes Benedick your cousin as well."

John groans, dropping his head onto her shoulder as she shakes with laughter. He nuzzles her neck, mouth grazing her nape. "It is well you are worth a thousand Benedicks."

"Oh, a thousand Benedicks. That is quite the prize. However, I shall leave the Benedicks of the world to Beatrice." She hooks her fingers in his coat, bumping her nose against his. "The only man I want is you."

She feels the catch in his breath as her smile covers his own and she sinks into him. Her John, her husband, her soulmate, her heart.

"Come, come, let's have a dance!" Benedick calls. "Strike up, pipers!"

This pronouncement is met with cries of delight and the musicians start to play, the dancers forming circles.

"Will you dance, my lady?" John asks.

She beams at him and takes his hand. "With you as my partner? Always."

John's smile flames across his face and he raises her hand, pressing a kiss to her wrist, her soulmark, causing her pulse to flip.

And so, for the first time, but far from the last, husband and wife dance.

:-x-:

In their wedding chamber, amongst the rumpled sheets, Hero's hands roam his naked skin, like a blind woman learning his shape. John shudders beneath her palms. No one has touched him like this; as someone to behold. He had been hesitant to undress, a strange self-consciousness striking him, mingled with a fear that it would distress her to see Claudio's words. But she traces the marks inscribed across his flesh, unflinching at those which once cut.

"Do they bother you?" He asks, needing to be sure. She glances at him questioningly and he gestures to himself. "The marks."

"Not now." She runs her hand down his chest, John's blood rushing in the same direction. "Not here. Not on your skin."

John's throat tightens and he bows his face into her curls, breathing in the scent of her.

"Obedient… dim… dull… you must have thought little of me," she mumbles, fingers dancing over his skin.

John strokes a silken lock between his thumb and finger. "I do not know if this is a comfort, but I tried not to think of my soulmate at all."

"I suppose there is nothing worth being curious about."

John catches her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him. "You think I care a fig for the words of others? Hero, to treat these words as a reflection of yourself is to compare a puddle to the ocean, a candle to the sun. You are much more. So much more."

The corners of her lips quirk and she rests her hand on his forearm. "Not boring then?"

"You are unlike anyone I have ever met."

Her smile flourishes and she throws her arms high in the air. It takes several seconds for him to comprehend her meaning and then his mouth goes dry.

Hero watches him beneath her lashes, her voice breathless. "What? Are you not curious?"

In a trance, John reaches out and, with her aid, eases the shift over her head. He stares at the naked swell of her breasts, the dark rings with their rosebud centres, perking before his gaze. And there, arching over the left, the vicious scrawl of 'Bastard'.

His gaze rakes over her, devouring the cruel words which clutter her skin. His chest aches like a bone shard speared through his lungs. He feels each slight as if someone has carved them into his own flesh.

"John…" Her gentle voice pulls him from drowning, like some reverse siren. She is looking at him with those same soft, adoring eyes. Her hand reaches out, caressing his beard.

His stomach clenches and there is a prickling beneath his skin as bile coats his tongue. "You should loathe me. Look how I scar you."

Those vicious taunts a desecration of her perfect form. He is a canker indeed, rotting her beautiful soul.

"Oh John…" her fingers glide along his cheek, "I love you because of them. Look at what you have endured. Look at what you have overcome. How could I know such courage and not love them, love you?"

He shakes his head, grimacing. "Do not romanticise me. I earned my scorn. I have done terrible things."

He flexes his hands, feeling as if the blood was still crusted under his nails. How can he touch her with sullied hands?

But she touches him, cupping his face between her palms and gazing at him with gut-wrenching devotion. "I do not know your whole story… maybe you will honour me with it someday. But I know that a child could not deserve the abuse you received, John. If you are wicked, it is because the world was first."

One hand leaves him, slipping to her ribs and he sees her trace a word there — 'murderer'. He swallows, cold.

Hero exhales, fingers travelling up her body. "I know the worst of you… the darkest parts. I know how they weigh on your soul. Maybe I should have been repulsed, but I knew… as somehow I have always known… there is more to you. And now that I know you, John… the good and the rough… I find there is nothing in you that I do not love." She drags her lips across his chest, the action somehow holy. "I love you, John," she speaks it to his heart, "All of you."

He dives into her, bundling her against him, mouth on her collarbone, venerating flesh and freckles.

"Hero… Hero…" He wants to tell her something beautiful and there is nothing lovelier than her name. "...I am yours… all of me is yours."

She smooths back his hair, clutching his shoulders as her lips brush his brow. "All of you… all of me… good parts, bad parts… we are each other's… for better or worse…"

"For better," he murmurs into her kiss and feels her smile.

:-x-:

"I shall not be able to go shirtless. Not in public," John muses, brushing his hand over the ridges of her spine, concerned less with decency and more about protecting his wife's reputation. He will not risk her. Not with marks like these.

Hero hums, the sound vibrating through his sternum, her arms draped around his abdomen. "A tragedy."

His mouth curves wickedly and he tugs one of her curls. "I do it for your sake. The first time you saw me without a shirt, you walked into that doorpost."

Hero bolts upright. "I did no such thing!"

John coaxes her back to him, doing nothing to hide his smirk. "Almost."

Hero huffs, snuggling into him. "Insufferable fiend."

He peppers kisses along her brow. "Beloved Hero."

:-x-:

Hero has a new ritual. Instead of tending to each mark, she saves her caresses for her husband, running her fingers along his muscled planes and those softer areas, bestowing kisses to each jut and groove, her name spilling from his lips like a prayer. When she is finished and he is come undone, he will treat her to the same satisfaction, the same tenderness and adoration, until she is overflowing with his love.

Sometimes, it is he who unravels her first. Sometimes, it is a frenzied but harmonious exchange between them. Always an equal give and take.

She knows each scar on his skin and those hidden beneath. She knows how to soothe his wilder tempers and how to coax a boyish laugh. She knows the rough and raw of him, his ugliest parts, those sides of which he is ashamed. She knows the best of him, the compassion and the generosity hidden behind a stoic front as he addresses the labourers and staff. She knows the whorls of his hands, darkened with soil or ink. She knows the crook of his smile, golden across his face and upon her skin. She knows him to his marrow and deeper still. She knows the whole of him, as he knows the whole of her.

Never does their love falter, but grows and grows with each passing day, month, year. There are changes — silver in his hair, stretch marks across her stomach, sunspots crowding their skin. Their soulmarks are no exception; old wounds healing.

'Unlovable' is slow to leave, fading gradually until the time their children learn to speak, scrambling over their father, shrieking and giggling, while Hero leans against him. She still wears her ribbon around her wrist, as much a symbol of her love as the ring around her finger.

'Bastard' never leaves, but softens at the edges, no longer a scar. Hero cherishes the precious mark. ("It led me to you," she tells her husband when he tenses at the sight of it and guides his hand over her breast. "I love it, just as I love you.")

New marks appear. Love is not without its tribulations and marriage and parenthood come with their own unique challenges. Words spoken in the heat of the moment linger long after honest apologies are exchanged — a sort of penance for allowing tempers to get the better of them and lashing out at their partner. These marks are few, but heaviest upon them. That is the nature of things. They take the good with the bad. And there is far more good.

:-x-:

The children run shrieking as John stumbles after them, arms outstretched in his blindfolded state.

"Over here, John!" Pedro calls. "No! No! To your left! Left!"

"You are sending him in the opposite direction," Beatrice accuses from the safety of the sidelines.

Pedro flashes a roguish grin. "What? The purpose is not to be caught!" John goes still, managing to glare in his brother's direction though his eyes are covered. "Now, John. John. No rude gestures. There are children present."

Hero giggles and John twitches. Realising she has been detected, she makes to flee, but his reflexes are too fast, ensnaring her in his arms. She screams, laughing as he spins her around.

John chuckles, warm breath tickling her neck. "I have you."

"You do." She turns to face him, pushing up the blindfold to reveal his gorgeous umber eyes, gold dust glittering within. His fringe sticks up at odd-ends beneath the cloth and she runs her fingers through his beard, thicker now than in his youth. "I am glad you found me."

He leans into her, "I am glad it was you."

She presses her smile to his.

"Remember children are present!" Pedro shouts as they kiss.

"Remember I am present," Benedick protests, earning laughter from the children.

"You and Beatrice are just as bad," Pedro returns.

"Poor Uncle Pedro," Beatrice croons, "I do believe he feels left-out."

"We can change that!" Benedick declares. "Come on, kids!"

Pedro squawks and Hero and John break apart in time to see all the children (and Benedick) pile upon Pedro in a group hug, Beatrice cackling in the background.

"If you told me when we met this would be our future," John tells her, "I would have thought you mad."

Hero smiles up at him. "And now?"

"I think we are all mad." He kisses her forehead. "And I would not change a thing."

Hero grins. "Say that again later tonight after Pedro and Benedick have had a few drinks and Beatrice's tongue is its sharpest."

He leans his head upon hers, stroking her cheek. "Not a thing."

Hero's heart skips a beat, ever after all these years, and she rises on her toes, leaning into him. "We should save Pedro from our children."

"In a minute," John hums and kisses her again.