All credit for this tiny piece goes to Perennial, whose lovely stories are entirely responsible for both making me ship Hero/Don John at all and making me want to write a story to add to the collection. In this case, the idea for this story was directly inspired by the following question: "What if Don John went for a different sort of revenge plan?".
Thank you for reading!
The hot, midday sun shone brightly as prince's party rode into her father's villa. Smiling widely, Hero stood beside her father as they watched their liege's approach, ignoring the single trickle of sweat that was slowly crawling down her back. Keeping herself still, she observed the sloping, verdant hills surrounding her father's villa; encasing Messina in a myriad of vineyards, fields, and gardens that ended by the open coastline. Beyond them, to a side, were the azure waters of the nearby sea, around which the town's small port wrapped itself comfortably.
The announcement of their impending arrival had been like a rushing thrill. It had been months since the prince's last visit—almost a year—and the happier circumstances surrounding the event were likely to make it quite portentous; particularly in what concerned the subject of her potential future husband. She had already talked with her cousin for hours on what was likely to occur and, no matter what she thought on the topic or what she'd rather have in terms of a match, she knew her duty as her father's daughter and heir.
Clapping joyfully at her father's and the prince's embrace, she observed her father's liege lord discreetly. Don Pedro looked as dashing as she could remember; a tall and proud figure that looked every bit the liege lord he claimed to be. The trust between the two men was visible and plainly reciprocated, as was the underlying happiness her father felt upon extending a month-long invitation to the prince and his men.
Breaking her eyes away, Hero looked to the man on the prince's right. It was easy to recognise the young Florentine who had been instrumental in Don Pedro's recent victory: Signior Claudio, a young man with a boyish face and thick tresses of hair falling in his eyes. Behind him, with a full beard that made him look older, was her cousin's very own sparring partner; his clear eyes less heavy than they had been months ago.
Catching Claudio's eyes, Hero smiled, only to find herself surprised at the sweet, warm way in which he took to smiling back at her. He had looked calm and confident when walking to the open patio upon which the villa's entrance was located at, but it seemed to have melted away. He was now looking at her with a dazzled, intense look, as if she were a previously undiscovered treasure of some sort. His posture belying nothing but a queasy nervousness.
He hadn't paid her much mind before leaving for the war, she remembered. He had barely paid her any real mind at all, in fact, focused as he had been on the coming fight. It seemed to have changed completely, however. As if Leonato had only just unveiled his single and only daughter.
Keeping her smile fixed in place as her father beckoned her forward, she curtsied at the prince, who was quick to smile back.
"Good Signior Leonato! I think this is your daughter," he said, beckoning her to raise.
Her father nodded. "Her mother has told me so many times."
Benedick took the chance to approach them, a sly smile on his slightly sun-browned face. "Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her?
"Signior Benedick, no," her father said with a laugh, "for you were then a child."
Laughter rang from the crowd around them. Silently, Hero approached her two waiting-gentlewoman whilst her cousin, looking fierier and livelier than she had seen in the past few months, answered Benedick's following quip.
Furtively, glancing over Claudio's searching eyes, Hero took the chance examine the remainder of the men in the prince's party. There weren't many more of note that she knew, and none whose attention was not on her cousin's sharp, dagger-like words. None, at least, with the exception of the other prince, who despite having stood at Don Pedro's left was now alone in the middle of the villa's entryway.
Don John, she reminded herself, repeating her father's words to herself. The prince's as of late estranged brother, who has only just been reconciled with him.
She could remember him, of course. Hearing about him, that is, given how he hadn't been present during the prince's previous visit, when war had only just started. He was the prince's illegitimate brother, who had used disaffected Aragonese noblemen to rebel against him. Despite the many he had incensed to do so he had lost, only to find himself spared and forgiven. That Don Pedro had allowed him to be present was somewhat of a surprise, though not one he was too happy about, judging by his sullen, dour look.
Hero's eyes flicked to her father's form. He knew it all too well, judging by his expression, and was eager to avoid any accidental offence that he could mayhap cause.
"Let me bid you welcome, my lord," Leonato said, turning to face the other prince. "Being reconciled to the prince your brother, I owe you all duty."
Shaken out of whatever reverie he had been in since his party's arrival, Don John nodded. "I thank you," he said, his voice deep and low, every word measured. "I am not of many words, but I thank you."
Hero watched as her father, nodding in kind, looked back towards Don Pedro, beckoning him to lead the way into the villa. Distractedly, she found her eyes flicking back to the wayward prince, finding herself entranced by his seemingly solitary disposition. Pursing her lips, she couldn't help but muse as she watched him openly, finding him an interesting study.
He made for a striking figure, even with his grave, more sombre looks. He was less boyish looking than Claudio, as well as significantly more closed, but she couldn't deny that she found him handsome; his short, dark hair a striking contrast from the softer browns and blonds of the crowd around him.
Despite his impassive expression, it was easy to see that he didn't look particularly at ease with the men around him. He didn't look particularly contrite, either; a fact which made his presence all the more fascinating. She couldn't be the only one to have taken notice of the feelings breaking through his staid demeanour though, which only raised the question as to why it was that Don Pedro took so little pains to integrate him into the group. He had been forgiven, hadn't he?
The thought gave her pause. Don John had chosen to stain what little honour his birth had awarded him. What was it that had made him wish to rebel against his own blood and kin? To mark himself a traitor for all men to see and leave himself on even thinner standing? What was it that had made him desire to strike that first blow, rallying his own brother's enemies against him?
What had he thought once he had found himself not just defeated, but also subject to a display of forgiveness akin to Caesar's famous mercy? He couldn't have expected it; not with how uncomfortable he looked.
She stilled at the thought. A brief, silent moment passed. Suddenly, just as the rest of the party began to leave, Don John's dark eyes flicked to her own.
Embarrassed at her having been caught staring, Hero felt herself flush. Despite it, she wasn't able to make herself look away, entranced as she was by the grim, stoic-looking man.
Keeping her eyes on Don John's own, she watched as a puzzled frown overtook his face. Unaware of the crowd around her, she decided to smile openly and fully, as was her manner, only to watch as his expression became significantly more guarded. Enough that, had they not been at her father's villa, she'd suspect him of seeing an ambush or a trap rather than her simple, honest gesture.
An arm wrapped itself around her shoulders before she could decide whether to say anything. Startled, Hero looked away from the wayward prince, missing the hot, jealous look Claudio directed at him in the process, as well as the ghostly beginnings of his answering, self-satisfied smile.
"Sweet Hero, do you wish for us to retire to our rooms?" Beatrice asked.
Hero nodded. Meeting her cousin's eyes, she allowed her to lead her into the villa and up a staircase. Walking in silence, she breathed in relief as they began to cut through the empty hallway at the top of the staircase, inwardly wondering just how much time she had accidentally spent gazing at Don John. Her father had already left with Don Pedro, as had the majority of the party's remainder, yet she had barely heard anyone say anything.
It was only when they had reached an open, balcony-like window that her cousin spoke, half-smiling as she gestured at the paved entryway below.
"He is infatuated with you," she said softly, "that much is clear."
Breathing in sharply, Hero darted her eyes to the open area below, only to feel herself deflate at the sight of Benedick and Claudio, speaking in the now empty entryway. "Is he?" she replied, looking at the boyish young man.
"Most certainly. Planning to ask your father for his favour too, no doubt," Beatrice said. Then, leaning forwards, "does it please you?"
For a moment, Hero found herself surprised at the thought. He had looked at her with a soldier's eyes before the war, barely noticing she was a woman. Considering that, his attention now was flattering, though she had hardly taken notice of him over the bastard prince.
"I cannot say," she admitted honestly, glancing at the pair of men below. The two chose that moment to look up at them, as if summoned by her and her cousin's proximity. Claudio at her, yearningly, and Benedick with a strange, unreadable look that her cousin determinedly ignored. "I have hardly ever spoken to him."
Beatrice's lips quirked up into a smile. "Neither have you Don John, I think," she said teasingly.
Hero felt herself flush. Opening and closing her mouth, she dropped herself onto an ornate, walnut bench, unsure of what she could say that could explain the fascination that had overtaken her minutes earlier.
"He is of a very melancholy disposition," she settled for saying, her voice barely above a whisper.
Raising an eyebrow, Beatrice's eyes flicked first to her, and then to the courtyard below where, judging by the additional clear, distinct voice, Don Pedro had just arrived.
"He looks rather tartly, does he not?" Beatrice said humorously, gesturing at the distant entryway with her arm, as if Don John still was there. Taking the seat beside her, she looked at her knowingly, wrapping her arm around her own. "He makes me feel heart-burned not even an hour after seeing him."
Hero laughed, recognising her cousin's wit for what it really was.
o-o-o
Hours later, Hero found herself following her family to the outer garden, from which music and laughter could already be heard, she smiled, laughing at her cousin's sharp, witty comments. She was dressed in a light, comfortable dress. Though ornate, the white piece—one of her favourites—felt soft against her skin, its touch less constricting than her heavier, winter dresses.
Clapping at the merry revellers in the garden, she half-danced towards a table with masks with her cousin and uncle, cutting between the dancing couples. Smiling, she glanced at the splendid decorations with which the garden had been garlanded. It looked completely unlike how it normally did, a fact which even her participation in the masquerade's preparation days before could not take away. It looked beautiful and elegant. Rows of coloured paper lamps cast the garden in a plethora of colours. Just beyond them, only slightly further away, a set of torches lit what remained, casting shadows on the flourishing hedges and plants. At the garden's centre, near the chapel, the group of musicians her father had hired were playing a fast-paced galliard.
Laughing with Beatrice, Hero handed a mask to her father before picking up a silver half-mask for herself, only to find him placing a hand gently on her shoulder.
"Daughter, remember what I told you," Leonato said softly. "If the prince does solicit you in that kind, you know your answer."
Hero nodded. An undeniable sense of nervousness rose in her stomach at the words, followed by a queasy, strangely eager feeling.
Allowing her father to pull her into a hug, she then watched as he then turned to face Beatrice. "Well, niece," he said. "I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband."
"Not till God make men of some other metal other than earth," Beatrice replied, smiling slyly.
Laughing, Hero allowed the music swelling in the courtyard to infect her. Tying her mask to the back of her head, she readied herself to dance away, only to find herself startled by the roll of drums that announced the arrival of the prince's party. Behind her, Ursula and Margaret clapped. At their side, she saw her uncle gesture at the distant party.
"The revellers are entering!" he declared, his loud, booming voice carrying itself all throughout the garden.
And so they did. The group of masked men stepped into the garden, passing by the crowd gathered at the doorway. Amused, Hero watched as her cousin beelined towards a side of the garden, all whilst keeping her eyes on a masked man that, judging by her determined expression, could only be Benedick. A lithe man with a cherub mask stared motionlessly at her, saying and approaching no one even as a more heavily garbed man directed himself towards her.
Claudio, perhaps, she thought, observing his figure. His posture looked similar enough, though, given how he had been looking at her that very morning, she couldn't quite understand why he'd choose to stay still whilst someone else approached her.
She very nearly jumped when a hand brushed against her own. Turning around, Hero found herself facing a man in a full-faced beaked mask, its red colour standing out amidst the gentler tones of the other masks around her.
The man bowed deeply. "If I may, my Lady," he said, the cadence of his voice obscured by his full-faced mask.
A breeze blew through the garden, making the decorations sway gently. "And you are…?"
The man made no attempt to reply. Instead, as if by way of an answer, he offered his hand. Feeling flushed and happy despite the foreboding her father's words had brought, Hero nodded, curtseying in response.
She took his hand. "I would be delighted to," she said, smiling gently.
It was only when she looked into the dark eyes peering at her from behind the mask that she realised who the stranger was.
The bastard prince, she thought, blinking in surprise. This is Don Pedro's brother.
It'd be impossible for her not to recognise his eyes; not with how she had found herself staring at him that very morning. A fact that remained, as it turned out, even in the flickering light cast by the torches scattered around the garden.
Taking his hand, Hero barely had time to register the way in which the man with the cherub mask and his heavily garbed companion froze when her partner began to lead her into the dancing crowd.
Hero beamed at him as she followed through the steps of the galliard, delighting herself in the smooth, easy way with which his footsteps led her through the dance's steps. They continued throughout the entirety of the tune, until they had spun all across the garden and the group of musicians had begun to play the unmistakable, slower tune of an allemande. Wordlessly, she changed her steps to match the slower tempo of the song, delighting herself in the gentle, near-touch of their hands.
She was breathless by the time the song that followed the allemande ended. Breathing heavily, Hero directed a wide smile at her companion, only just coming to remember the presence of the dancers around them. Seeming to understand the reason for her pause, Don John led her to a side of the garden, at the edge of the group of dancers.
"Thank you, my Lord," she said, sitting on one of the garden's stone benches. "I had not danced as much in quite some time."
Nodding, he took a seat beside her, saying nothing whilst his eyes darted to the crowd before them, as if seeking to confirm something. Hero found herself unable to do much beyond observing him, feeling as entranced as she had been that morning. Before long, his dark eyes were peering up at her, as if sensing her gaze, their owner's identity unmistakable.
The corners of her lips curled upwards. There was no questioning his identity, even with the way his mask hid the entirety of his face. This was Don John.
Why had he asked her to dance, though? What exactly had driven him to do so?
He had to have known who she was, that much was clear. He wouldn't have approached her like he had otherwise. Not when a man of the prince's party—Don Pedro himself, perhaps—had been approaching her so directly. Dancing with her and her alone must have clearly been his goal.
Smiling at the thought, she darted her eyes at the crowd before her, only to frown at the sight of the man with the cherub mask. He was talking with the heavily garbed man who had attempted to approach her, his clenched fists and rigid posture making his displeasure clear.
She blinked. Why is he angry, she wondered, if it was his heavily masked partner who sought to approach me?
Could it really be Claudio?
It didn't take long for the man besides her to follow her gaze. "Is there someone you were hoping to also dance with, my Lady?" he asked somewhat sombrely.
Hero shook her head sharply, knowing her answer instinctively.
"Not at all," she said sweetly. Smiling again, she willed herself to forget about the strange sight. She'd have time to think about it later, once the masquerade was over and she had Beatrice with her. "You dance with skill and grace. I could not have wished for a better partner."
The way her dancing partner's eyes widened told her that something about her words had surprised him. Keeping her gaze fixed on his, she couldn't help but notice the strange way in which a hard, calculating shrewdness seemed to mix with a subtler, more heartfelt earnestness.
Before she knew it, the flurry of questions from before had risen again in her mind.
Why exactly had he chosen to approach her, really? Was his motivation exclusively related to his relationship with the other men in his brother's party? It couldn't be. Not with the hidden, more mellow feeling she could all but see now.
She was broken away from her thoughts when the music ended. A pause followed as the musicians rearranged their instruments, preparing themselves for a different tune. To a side, she saw the cherub-faced man—Claudio—begin to approach her.
Don John must have too, as he stood up and bowed in a single, smooth movement, offering his hand once again. "Would you be willing to dance with me again, my Lady?"
Hero's smile widened. Standing up, she gathered her courage and took his hand even when it became clear that the next dance would be a Volta. "I would be delighted to, Don John," she said, raising her eyebrows to mark her use of his name. No matter what his reasons, she wanted him to know that she had recognised him.
Don John stilled, though whether at her direct mention of his name or at her full, candid smile she did not know. Wordlessly nodding, he instead took the lead as they began to dance to the music; his wordless and startled show of emotion going unmentioned.
At a side, only just barely out of Hero's sight, the man with the cherub mask froze again.
o-o-o
Claudio's sour and angry expression the coming morning made it clear that some plan must have gone awry the previous night. He had looked grim during much of the shared breakfast. Though he had attempted to direct a few, sparse words towards her at its end, after only ever talking to Don Pedro and Benedick, his stilted tone of voice and quick, angry glances at Don John had been quick to cut them short.
To her shame, Hero had found herself disaffected by the strange display, her attention drawn instead to the figure of the man she had danced with yesterday. Though he looked nothing but composed, the way he didn't so much as meet Claudio's angry eyes made the fact that he had noticed the tension underlying the merry gathering clear.
So did most of the people sitting around the table, as it turned out.
Though her father made no mention to it, his alert, querying gaze hadn't taken long to search for Don Pedro's. The prince, despite answering Leonato's wordless question with an easy and calm gesture, had quickly taken to fix a calculating and analytical gaze on his own brother, whom he seldom seemed to focus on. The remainder of the people sitting around the table seemed to have been similarly befuddled. The only exception was Benedick, whose mind, likely owing to whatever it was that her cousin had said at the masquerade yesterday, seemed to be elsewhere.
Her decision to dance with Don John yesterday had clearly interrupted something, though what exactly Hero could not say. Neither did her father, at least for now, though she didn't doubt he'd be asking Don Pedro soon enough.
Only Beatrice chose to wordlessly communicate her thoughts on what much of the group seemed intent on avoiding. Silently, close to the breakfast's end, she fixed her eyes on Hero's. Raising an eyebrow, she then flicked them at Claudio and at Don John himself, whom she looked pointedly at.
Ah, so that's it, Hero thought, nodding minutely in order to indicate to her cousin that she had understood what she meant. Was Claudio meaning to ask for my hand yesterday?
Had Don John gotten in the way on purpose?
She remained silent for the remainder of the meal, only talking to Beatrice, Margaret, and Ursula. Once it was finished, she followed the latter woman out of the hall and to the villa's garden, accidentally walking past Claudio, who seemed to have been meaning to engage her. Speaking in quiet, hushed breaths, they began to devise a way in which to bring Don Pedro's muttered plan about Benedick and her cousin into fruition. Before long the steps to take had been fully laid out, and, not for the first time, Hero found herself wondering whether her cousin's barbed words concealed what feelings—both the known and unknown—she felt for Signior Benedick.
It was only hours later, after she and Ursula had deliberately allowed their conversation to be overheard by Beatrice and it was almost dinnertime, that she saw Don John again.
He made for a striking figure, cutting through the hedged garden as he did; his every stride as measured and calculated as his words. He was dressed in a similar vest and shirt as that which she had seen him wear on the day of his arrival. The top two buttons of the simple, white linen piece were partially undone; offering a view of his clavicle and hinting at his having spent the majority of the day outside.
Coming to a stop in front of her, Don John bowed with a single, effortless movement that made her think back to yesterday's dance. Not saying a word, he reached for her right hand and brought it up to his lips.
Hero flushed. Feeling herself slightly undone by the gesture, she mutedly watched as his dark eyes bore straight into her own, the same shrewd deliberation she had seen yesterday belying a clear, heartfelt candour.
"My lady, would you give me the honour to escort you to supper?" he asked. His voice, as deep and low as she could remember, sounded more at ease than it had upon his arrival at Messina.
Despite herself, Hero brushed her left thumb over the skin of her right hand, still feeling the touch and heat of his lips. Meeting Ursula's knowing gaze, she allowed a moment to pass in silence before smiling brightly and giving her answer.
"I would be delighted to," she said, offering her arm. Her smile widened when Don John's impassive expression froze momentarily; the badly disguised surprise making the honest feeling lurking beneath all the clearer.