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.