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.