The doctor explains the blow to his head has impacted his memories, misplacing ten years of his life. John listens to this diagnosis but does not give it credit until after the doctor leaves and she enters.
"Your supper, my lord." The serving woman sets the tray on the bedside table and refills his cup. "There is a portion for the lady too. Please ensure she eats, she has had no appetite since your accident."
It takes a moment to place her, face illuminating as she lights the candles. He spared her little notice before but he is certain the crow's feet are new as well as the silver streaks amidst those mouse-brown curls. He knows stress steals youth but she did not appear so affected when he glimpsed her last. However, he is sure this is the same woman.
"Margaret?"
She glances at him, not a hint of loathing in those storm blue eyes. "Is there something you need, my lord?"
She does not balk or scream. Nor does she smash the water jug over his head. Her voice is polite and sincere, a servant addressing her master.
"No… carry on."
"Thank you, my lord." If she thinks his behavior strange she is clever enough not to show it. On her way out, she pauses. "The whole household is relieved to hear you have awakened, sir."
John gives the barest nod of acknowledgement and she exits the room. He collapses against the pillow, staring at the plaster ceiling and the wooden beams running through. Has he really lost ten years? But this cannot be his future. It cannot be.
He realises he is fiddling with something and glances at his hand, finding a gold band around his fourth finger. Ice scrapes down his spine. It cannot be…
It is an effort to remove, the fit is firm, but he slips the ring over his knuckle —
Wrongness slams into him, like peeling skin from bone. He jams the ring back on his finger, exhaling hard. He stares at the band, glinting in the candlelight. Can he truly be married? And to Hero.
He does not know how much time passes in dazed wondering. A hand brushes his shoulder and he starts, finding Hero beside him.
"You should eat."
Her voice is achingly gentle. More of her bun has come loose, sable curls cascading around her neck. Now he is looking, he sees she has shed those last girlish traces, a woman in full-bloom.
"If you eat with me."
Light flickers across her face, the shadow of a smile. She pulls a chair next to the bed, picking up a spoon and bowl from the tray. A pointed look has him doing the same. The broth is warm, if not hot. Questions burn on his tongue, even as he spoons more of the stew into his mouth. His peers used to sneer at his silence but John knows what a careless word can reveal. He waits for others to fill the silence, to show their hands, dissecting all that is and is not said before he utters a word. It is not a difficult feat in the present moment when his stomach outweighs his curiosity.
"The doctor — the doctor spoke to me on his way out," Hero says. "He told me — told me about your—" she sucks in a breath, spoon clinking against the bowl as her hand shakes, "—about your memories."
He regards her. As sceptical as he is, he cannot deny the evidence of time's passing in both Hero and Margaret's features. He wonders about his own face and fights the urge to ask for a mirror. Instead, he sets his bowl aside and meets her gaze.
"Of anyone, you most deserve your revenge against me. But… if you swear this is no trick, I will… trust you."
She leans forward, "I give you my word this is no trick. I swear I will not lie to you."
He sets his jaw. He would be a worse villain than he has already proven himself if he doubts her now. If it were anyone else he would laugh in their face, but this is Hero, sweet and honest Hero — any stain on her honour is one he left himself. The least he owes her is trust.
He frowns at his hands, flexing his fingers. (If he peers close enough will he find flecks of her blood?)
He sighs, raising a hand to his bandaged head. "Then a better diagnosis would be madness for none of this can be true."
She hands him a bread roll. "What is it that you find so fantastical?"
He tears it in half, offering the bigger piece to her. "The doctor called you my wife."
She lifts her hand, showing off the gold ring, kin to his own. "Yes, we have been married for eight years."
Eight years.
"How—" His thoughts careen to the child from before and cold seeps into his blood. "That girl—"
Dark curls and hazel eyes. But it was not Hero he glimpsed in her — though their resemblance is irrefutable — it was his mother.
Hero watches him piece it together.
"Clarissa was my mother's name."
She nods. "We named our daughter after her. She is six, not far from seven."
All the breath leaves him. "We have a child."
Hero fidgets with the bread, wringing crumbs into her lap. "We have three. Clarissa, Leonato, and Antonio. We call them Leo and Tonio to avoid confusion."
It is a rare thing that can knock John off guard. Even waking without his memories is just another situation to which he must adapt. But this —
He is certain his eyes are bulging out of his skull. "H-How?"
A smile slinks across her lips. "I do not have to explain that to you, do I?"
He lurches into the headboard, his mind filling with images of rose-blush and peach skin beneath his fingers, limbs entangling and divine heat — he shoves those thoughts into a locked box, sweat collecting on his brow. Hero is still smiling. She promised no tricks but this has to be a jest.
And yet… that girl… Clarissa…
His voice creaks around splintered glass, "You could not."
"Three children, John."
There again — his name in her mouth. That spit of letters, common and plain. None of the poetry of Pedro or Claudio. But she makes it sound like it is everything — sun, moon, sky — as if all the world is held in that one name.
John.
"Hero…"
It feels like sacrilege, her name on his slandering tongue, yet her lashes flutter. She places the warped roll back onto the dish and leans forward.
"The doctor believes your memories will return, but he is not sure how soon — days, weeks — " her voice wobbles " — months."
The doctor told him as much, though he could read the hesitation in the man's face. His memories could return — or they could not. These sort of things are down to divine will and bastards are not favourites of God.
John scowls at the wall. He cannot have lost something he never knew. But like his father's love or an honourable birthright, he feels that clenching absence in his chest, a gnawing hollow when Hero speaks his name, her fingers brushing over his own.
"If your memories have not returned tomorrow, I will make the household aware. They will not demand so much of you."
He bristles at the prospect of others learning of his condition — pitying him, wielding it against him.
Hero bats her hand. "Yes, yes, never admit weakness, you stubborn man. Our servants can be trusted to be discrete, I promise. If we did not tell them, they would only guess. You are not such an aloof master that they would not wonder if you stopped addressing them by their names or asking after their families."
John reflects on this. He never had an estate of his own to govern, though he would observe his father, and managed those duties which his brother thought too banal for his attention. And he led a revolt, be it unsuccessful. It is no mere feat to make men rise against their sovereign, to spit in the face of the familiar and comfortable, no matter how bitter their complaints, and risk sure punishment for their treason. It is not enough to inspire fear. You must garner their respect, their devotion, if you wish them to follow you to their deaths.
(And follow him, they did. Only, he survived.)
His bones ache with the memories of war. The scars feel fresh though they are more than ten years old now. Perhaps time does not heal all wounds (as if he did not already know this).
Hero's hand presses over his. "You are drifting. I will let you rest. But first I need to ask…"
She trails off. He glances at her, her focus fixed on their hands, where her fingers spread over his, her thumb stroking his knuckles. He restrains from flexing under her touch, holding his hand still, nails digging into the sheets.
She takes a breath and her eyes flit to his. "Our children… I can tell them your head is jumbled from the fall… they will forgive a few blunders, but I cannot — I cannot tell them their father has forgot— has forgotten them. It will — break their hearts."
Her voice cracks, shoulders quivering, and, without thinking, his hand envelops hers. "Hero."
She expels a shuddering breath, her fingers weaving between his own. "Will you — will you do this — please?"
He nods, not sure he could refuse her anything in this moment. "I will. Leonato, Antonio, and — and Clarissa."
She bows her head upon his shoulder. He stiffens, but she does not draw back, mumbling into his shirt, "I could tell you all about them. If it is not — if it is not too much."
His heart beats in his throat, so close to where her head rests. "Tell me."
She does so, spinning him visions of mischief and merriment, ensnaring him in her golden coils, and he knows this for a dream, knows when his eyelids re-open, lulled by her melodic tones, he will be returned to his bitter, shunned existence. But for now, he lets himself drift under her spell, tangling in a life of laughter, warmth, and belonging. Her hand does not leave his and he holds on to her — holds on to what might have been.
:-x-:
"Is he awake?"
"Ssshhh, you will wake him."
"That is the point."
John stirs into consciousness to not so quiet voices. Something prods his cheek.
"Leo. Stop."
He grimaces, scrunching his eyes.
"You woke him!"
He blinks against the morning light. Two impish faces stare down at him, dark curls and doe eyes. He stares back, his mind slowly waking. The girl leans forward and his brain snags on a tangle of thread, weaving a picture.
"Papà?"
The memories of last night blaze across his mind, snaring on those ragged edges where ten years have been scorched from his tapestry.
So. Not a dream.
John cannot begin to unravel all the implications, but, like a cat, he knows how to land on his feet.
"Clarissa," he answers, stiff. The name is both the salve and the wound.
She beams. "Good morning, Papà."
"I am sorry! I didn't mean to kill you!" The boy wails.
His sister thumps his arm. "Stupid! He is not dead."
"Don't hit me!" He thumps her back.
John's skull throbs and he sits up, startling the children as the blankets shift beneath them.
"Clarissa, Leo." He is used to commanding soldiers, not children, but at the low steel of his voice, they still (though do not appear fearful, he is relieved to note). He gentles his words as he addresses the boy. "As you can see, Leo, I am alive. If you wish to kill me, you will have to try harder."
"I don't want to kill you," Leo cries as if the concept were abominable (which is nice).
"Papà is jesting," Clarissa huffs. "A runt like you could never kill him."
"Hey! I am not a runt!"
And they are off again. John is unaccustomed to children, but they seem comfortable in his presence at least — and with each other. Hero explained Leo was only a year younger than Clarissa; it makes sense they are close. He thinks of his own fraught relationship with his brother; even as children they were kept apart, the resentment stoked. There was never any of this playful heckling between them.
Before anyone's elbow can land in an eye, he intercedes. "Who is going to tell me what I missed while I was sleeping?"
The children speak at once, raising their voices to be heard over the other, a verbal tug-of-war. Their speech is punctuated with wide gestures, rambling on tangents which lead to sudden ends and veer widely in other directions. He tries to pick-out the most salient details, but it is like using a fishing net to catch butterflies. All he can do is nod along, responding with what he hopes to be appropriate sounds and questions. Neither of them complains.
John has not spent much time around children, but he listened attentively as proud parents babbled on about their little ones, the serving staff warming to him, a beat-down soldier lighting with renewed purpose. He understands something of the role required of him. He is well-practiced in reflecting the mask others expect of him and this fits more naturally than some. In fact, this does not feel like pretending as amusement stirs in his chest.
The moment feels timeless, even with the sun pouring in from behind the shutters, flecks of dust shimmering in the air. He watches the children laugh and squabble with the flicker of a smile.
The door eases open and Hero pads inside, a dark-curled cherub bundled in her arms. This must be the two-year old Antonio, the resemblance to his namesake visible in his ruddy cheeks.
Hero spies the children crowding the bed and sighs. "Here are my troublesome children. I thought I might find you here."
"Mamma! Mamma!" Clarissa cries. "Look, Papà is awake."
"He is AWAKE!" Leo echoes, bouncing on the bed.
Hero's curls are loose and rumpled from sleep, rose-lips part in a teasing smile. "I would be amazed if he could sleep through your racket." She meets John's gaze, a question shining in her eyes. "How are you feeling?"
"I am awake," he answers, then shakes his head.
Her shoulders slump but her smile does not slip. "I am surprised you have not a headache from their squawking."
Said two exclaim their protests and the babe in Hero's arms join the raucous choir. John's fingers press against his brow, a dull ache growing behind his eyes.
"Hush, dear hearts!" Hero's voice is pleasant if worn. "Your papà is still recovering. Run along to Ursula and let her dress you for the day."
The wailing spikes, mattress creaking as the children flail. "NoooOOO!"
"Pa-Pa! Pa-Pa!" Tonio burbles, attempting to clamber from Hero's arms before she has even lowered him onto the bed.
"Are you not hungry? You cannot join us for breakfast until you are dressed."
"You are not dressed." Clarissa gestures to the long robe tied over Hero's nightgown.
Tonio crawls his way into John's lap, greeting him with a gum smile. "Pa-Pa!"
John's heart rolls in his chest, clattering upon a leaden stomach. Bright eyes peer up at him and he steadies the little one, conscious of his strength and the babe's fragile frame.
"I am not dressed because I have mischievous children to catch," Hero retorts and strikes, snatching the nearest imp — Leo — around the waist and hauling him to her. He goes thrashing and squealing. "Come on, or it will be cold eggs for you."
"Noo! Noo!" Clarissa crows, scrambling across the sheets to escape her mother, despite Hero's hands being full with a struggling Leo.
She is smiling but there is strain in her shoulders as she tries to wrangle the disobedient sprites, wisps of hair stick out at odd angles, and violet shadows her eyes.
"These cannot be my children," John says.
Hero flinches. The children hush.
"My children are well-behaved and listen to their mother."
Clarissa and Leo clamour their protest, "We ARE your children!" / "We are well-behaved!"
He pretends not to heed them, continuing in exaggerated tones, "You must be changelings, sent by the fae to cause mischief. We shall have to take you back to the forest and exchange you for our nice, quiet children."
Hero's mouth curves upwards as the children shout, "NO! NO! WE'RE NOT!"
John raises an eyebrow.
Their voices drop to a whisper, "We are not fae. We can behave."
He tilts his head sceptically. "Can you?"
"We CAN!" Leo exclaims. Clarissa elbows him and his voice goes small, "I mean — we can."
"Not fay," Tonio mumbles around his thumb, lolling in John's lap.
"If this is true then you better do as your mother says and go to Ursula. When I come down I expect to find you dressed and tidied — that means your hair combed, your faces washed, and your noses blown." He levels them with a stern look, keeping his gaze off Hero so her suppressed laughter does not trigger his own. "Or else, it is the forest for you."
The dismayed children hurtle from the bed and out the door. "Ursula! Ursula!"
Hero bursts into laughter as soon as they are gone, perching on the bed and beaming at him. "My prince of tricks."
The epithet is fond and familiar. His pulse quickens and he stares at her as if seeing her for the first time. And perhaps he is. When they first met, his vision was too clouded by vengeful thoughts to appreciate her loveliness, and after, he saw her as a pretty tool to spite the upstart Claudio and his prideful half-brother. Last night she appeared a dream to him, but now he sees her in the morning light — her hair is unravelled, her face bare, the blemishes of a sleepless night and the etches of laughter lines all revealed. More real to him now than she has ever been and still beautiful.
"Is this Hell?"
The smile is struck from her face and she goes rigid. When she speaks, her voice is tight, "Do you take this for punishment?"
Tonio gurgles, burrowing into John's arm. He swallows, "I would take this for paradise if I did not know myself a sinner."
Hero sucks in a breath, fingers spilling across his brow, "Oh, my melancholy love."
She plucks a hair from his head.
"Ow!"
"Feeling more in touch with real life?"
"You recall I suffered severe head trauma?"
Her lashes flutter. "With that thick skull of yours?"
He narrows his eyes. "I see I have married a jester."
"Yet it is you with the jingle-headed notions." She nudges his shoulder, pressing into him as she draws her legs onto the bed. "I should make you change Tonio's wrappings. That will settle any nonsense about paradise and dreams."
Tonio glances between them, crawling over John to get to his mother. She taps his nose and he giggles.
"Your memories are still gone," she murmurs, focus fixed on her son.
"They are," he confirms, almost an apology.
She sighs and leans her head on his shoulder, holding Tonio as he attempts to stand. "Thank you. For playing along with Clarissa and Leo."
Tonio flexes a pudgy paw, reaching for John. He offers out a finger and the toddler captures it in his fist. "It was no hardship."
For a moment, they sit in silence, Tonio babbling between them.
Then, Hero turns to him. "I know you, John. Despite all your guards and pretences, I know you. Who you were, who you are, who you believe yourself to be. I know your thoughts and doubts. Each of your evils and all of your good. I know the shape of your soul, down to the last splintered shard you fear unlovable. I know you. Even if you do not know yourself. I know you. And I love you. Always."
Her face ripples or perhaps it is John's vision. All he can do is stare — stare — expecting her to fade into cloud but she remains solid and true. His heart batters against his ribs.
Eyes shining, she rises from the bed, scooping Tonio into her arms. Her lips brush over the babe's dark curls. "Say goodbye to Papà, darling."
Tonio flaps his hand. "Bye-bye, Pa-Pa."
She heads for the door. Breath swells inside his chest, an urgent need to call her back. But his voice lodges in his throat, unable to summon the words.
"I shall send Conrade along to help you dress, if you are feeling up to it." She tosses him a smile like one does a lifeline to the drowning sailor. "I hope to see you at breakfast, along with our changeling children."
Then she is gone and his head hits the pillows. Alone once more, the silence presses down on him, suffocating. His mind whirls through the events of the last — hour? — piecing together the shatters of his life. His thoughts snag on Hero's parting words…
Did she say Conrade?
