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… bastardscumverminvillain…

("...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.