Rain soaks John's clothes as he runs, cold biting his skin even as his body burns from the exertion, the wind lashes his face. He sprints across the garden, the downpour drenching him through. His shirt and breeches cling to him, creating an unpleasant friction that he gives no mind to, thoughts only of Hero.
The mausoleum comes into view. He rushes under the shelter, boots skidding on the slick paving. The gates are locked. Inside, its residents slumber on, undisturbed by the storm. He pants, heartbeat wild in his chest as he looks around. For a moment he fears he has guessed wrong and Hero is not here. Then his frantic gaze lands on a figure hunched in shadow. Mud splatters the hem of her dress, the white fabric dark and waterlogged. She hugs her knees to her front; curls limp around her face.
John crouches next to her. "Hero…?"
She shudders, lifting her head the merest fraction to meet his gaze over the tops of her knees. At the sight of her red-rimmed eyes, his stomach plummets.
Her voice scrapes from her throat, as if she has inhaled too much smoke, "It's not true."
He does not ask her what. "I know."
She exhales, squeezing her eyes shut. She closes the distance between them, burying her face in his chest. John tenses, unsure what to do. How should he comfort her? She appears so fragile, as if she were glass.
(This is his fault.)
"Why are you here?" She asks, voice muffled in his shirt.
He is stricken with a sense of nakedness, unrelated to the clothes plastered to his skin. "I came to find you."
Her arms tighten around him. "You left before."
John bows his head to hers, nails digging into his palms. He left her alone last night and then Claudio attacked her.
"I will kill Claudio."
It is as much a promise as if he took a knife to his palm and sealed it in blood.
Hero whimpers, a shiver wracking her frame.
"We should return to the house," John murmurs, gentling his voice. She shakes her head. "Hero… you are soaked. We must get you dry."
"No." She burrows deeper into his chest. "I will not go back there. I cannot."
John's ribs compress. He thought he could protect her from his pyre, but they burned her anyway.
He unpeels his coat, draping it around her. It is as wet as the rest of him, but it will grant her some protection from the elements. "Your innocence is known. Pedro takes your part. All will be righted. I swear."
Now, she raises her head, brows arched with a cynicism that looks wrong on her face. They both know how the smell of smoke lingers.
She sighs, collapsing against him. "It happened so fast…"
John swallows, tasting blood. A good reputation is never recovered as quick as it is lost. He folds her in his arms. "I vow I will mend this, Hero."
She draws back, expression void of her usual light. "This is not yours to mend."
The words sink through him and he trembles, unrelated to the rain. "I — " words scratch like a bone stuck in his throat. "I want to. Let me."
(This is his fault.)
She stares, head moving side-to-side. "No… No, I have asked too much of you."
He cups her cheek, cold beneath his palm. "You do not need to ask. I will do this. For you."
Hero closes her eyes, shivering.
He rubs her arms, trying to generate some heat. "Your skin is ice. Hero, we must return. You will get sick."
"I do not want to go back." She drops her head onto his shoulder, turning her face into his collar. "Let us run and be free of it all."
His breath hitches. Temptation sizzles through him. They could run, be outcasts together. But what life is in that? He will not condemn her to such a bitter fate.
(This is HIS fault.)
"You love your family. You will never be happy if you leave them like this."
Hero snuffles. "My father wishes me dead."
John resists the urge to track Leonato down and take him by the beard. Instead, he pulls Hero into a fierce hug. "Whatever he said, he regrets it. He railed at Pedro over your slander and would have duelled Claudio. I saw his terror when he learned of your disappearance. He loves you. I am not saying he deserves your forgiveness, but you need not be afraid. If I am not menace enough, then your cousin will eviscerate anyone who distresses you. She has cut Claudio already."
Hero huffs and John exhales, relieved to hear her amusement. "Dear Beatrice. She will eat all who wrong me."
"Then we should not worry her more, lest she lose her stomach. If you will not return for your sake, do so for mine. If I catch a cold, I will endeavour to die in order to guilt you most."
Miraculously, she laughs — it feels like absolution. "You would as well. It would be much like you to die for spite."
"Do not tempt me."
He helps her to stand. The rain has slowed to a drizzle. John clasps Hero's hand between his own, breathing hot air onto them, his lips almost brushing her fingers.
She watches him, droplets glistening in her lashes and on her cheeks, flushed from the cold.
He meets her gaze, "Hero…"
"HERO!"
John starts as Beatrice hurtles across the lawn to them, Benedick in pursuit.
Beatrice launches herself at her cousin, bundling her into her embrace. "Oh, my sweet!" Hero's gaze remains on John, a smile tugging across her lips as her cousin screeches. "You are freezing! We must get you inside!"
Without a backwards glance, Beatrice ushers Hero in the direction of the house, rushing past Benedick before he can speak. John watches them go.
"Lord, did you swim here?" Benedick asks him, doing a double-take. "Where is your coat?"
John rolls his eyes, stalking past him, back to the villa.
:-x-:
Hero is stripped and thrust into a hot bath as Ursula fusses with her clothes. At first, the water stings, but as her body adjusts to this new temperature, the ache soothes, and Hero reclines in the tub. She watches as her soulmarks ripple in the water, steam rising around her. Her fingers travel the familiar path, going from mark-to-mark.
John had not acknowledged their bond or made any mention to her drunken revelations when they spoke. He had not treated her with contempt either, but pity was almost as bad. She sighs and sinks lower in the bath, drawing her knees to her chest. Her dark locks swirl around her head like the flag of her homeland.
Why, why, why had she drunk as much as she did? What a fool she has made of herself. What must John think of her?
She closes her eyes, the rhythmic lapping of the water lulling her into a trance. She imagines that yesterday's sun never rose, that she is still safe in bed, snug under the covers, dreaming that John could love her, and Claudio never touched her.
:-x-:
John changes into dry clothes. He has to borrow a shirt from Conrade (an extensive wardrobe had not been prioritised when he rebelled against his brother). As he does so he sees again the terrible, ugly slurs Claudio must have assailed Hero with. The sight of them sickens him. John wants to flay the skin from his bones, to take a knife and carve out the words.
To think, if he had been less of a coward and checked his marks last night he might have spared Hero this pain.
If he had never left her alone in the courtyard —
If he had not lied to Claudio —
If he had kept his distance from her to begin with —
But one thing John knows all too well… he cannot change the past. All he can do now is fix this mess he created.
He receives separate requests from Pedro and Leonato to attend them once he is able. Pedro at least forgoes the armed escort this time around but considering his brother's earlier accusations John is inclined to make him wait. (It is only polite that he first gratifies their host).
Once again John is led into a room. There, he finds both Leonato and Antonio seated around a small table. At his entrance, the conversation cuts-off.
Leonato gives a nervous smile, the same as the one he offered at their first meeting. "Ah! My lord. Please. Join us."
He beckons John to the empty chair before them. John abides, his face smoothed into an impassive mask. This is the first time Leonato has sought him and John knows it is not for the pleasure of his company. He has already faced one interrogation today and resigns himself to another.
Leonato fumbles with a cup. "Wine, my lord?"
"Thank you, but not at this time." John wants to keep his head clear for what is no doubt to come.
Leonato does not press, filling his own cup and swigging from it with a speed that speaks of his stress. Antonio, John notes, also opts to remain sober, levelling the younger man with a discerning look. John meets his gaze, revising his assessment of the man.
Leonato sets down his cup, haggard features shifting into a sombre expression. "My lord, I understand you are not of many words — and I find I am exhausted with talking. Let us be frank. What are your intentions towards my daughter?"
John does not react. He anticipated this question. Between Claudio's allegations, their subsequent strife, and John then running after Hero, there is enough to implicate them without the false rumours going around. He has given this a lot of thought since delivering the shivering Hero into her cousin's arms and he sees only one path that will shield her from further scandal.
He leans forward, soulmarks burning. "To marry her. If she will have me — and with your blessing, good signiors."
Leonato and Antonio glance at each other, then break into relieved smiles. John's chest loosens and he breathes.
"Well," Leonato exhales, eyes twinkling. "I think that can be arranged."
:-x-:
Beatrice hastens down the corridor. Ursula had compelled her to change her frock, fretting about her catching her death. A fuss over nothing; Beatrice's dress was only a little damp from searching for Hero in the rain. Not nearly as bad as her poor cousin. Beatrice's heart caught in her throat when she saw the pale and shivering form of Hero, folded in Don John's coat.
Her pulse still has not slowed. She resists the urge to sprint to her cousin's chambers and turns the corner.
Benedick kicks-off from the wall he was leaning against, "Lady Beatrice."
Beatrice halts, staring at the man before her. "...Signior Benedick."
He moves towards her, slowly, as much like she were a deer at risk of spooking as he were at risk of being spooked himself. "How does your cousin?"
Beatrice thinks of Hero, her skin white as snow and just as cold as she hurried her cousin back to her chambers. Her eyes unfocused, in a dream-like state as Beatrice forced her on. She barely said one word except an assuring "Beatrice…"
She casts her gaze down, certain some of her anxieties must show in her face. "Very ill."
Benedick takes a step closer, bending his head to better look at her. "And how do you?"
She meets his gaze, shoulders falling along with all pretence. "Very ill too"
His face is sympathetic, eyes as soft as his curls. Beatrice's gut twists but otherwise she feels none of the prickling need to escape or deflect with a joke as she used to when people would pity her over her parents. There is something different about Benedick. She wants to share her grief with him, not hide it.
She rubs her arm dark letters itching under her sleeve.
Benedick speaks, "The Prince has discharged Claudio from his service and he has been banished to his uncle's house."
Beatrice scoffs, finding anger a more comfortable fit. "I hope Don John kills him."
Benedick's gaze flickers to the ground. He draws in a sharp breath and squares his shoulders, lifting his head. "I hope your cousin will mend. As I hope… you will as well."
"Hero is stronger than she seems," Beatrice tells him, as she tells herself.
"Yes… I have no doubt… if she has half the strength of her cousin… she will be well."
He looks at her, emotions she is afraid to name undulate in his eyes of January sky. Her windpipe tightens.
"Beatrice…" he begins and falters.
She leans forward, "Yes?"
He clears his throat. "I must tell you — I want to tell you — "
He does not finish, for they hear Antonio shouting, "Help! Help! It is Hero! Help!"
:-x-:
Ursula has to force Hero from the bath, clucking that she will resemble a prune if she remains any longer. The gentlewoman helps Hero redress into clean clothes, humming as she combs her hair. Hero can almost pretend nothing bad has happened as the bruises on her arms are concealed under cotton sleeves. Almost.
Ursula finishes styling her hair and Hero unwinds a pale ribbon from her trinket box, admiring the silk between her fingers. After a pause, she ties it around her wrist, just as she has each day since the mark of 'unlovable' first appeared.
There is a knock at the door and Ursula answers it; one of the servants has come to bid Hero to her father's side. She is still, heart quivering like a bird trapped in her ribcage. She knows she has to face him. She thought Beatrice might be at her side when she did so, but her cousin has disappeared again (Hero can guess to whom).
She recalls John's assurances, pressing her hand to her breast, and calms her breathing. She looks at herself in the mirror. No longer the delicate flower her father raised her to be. Now, she has thorns. She thinks of Beatrice. She thinks of John, his mark warm beneath her touch. Her mother named her Hero. She will not be cowed.
Hero walks through the villa, her head held high. Those she passes send her sympathetic glances. Hero steels her shoulders. Their mouths do not move but she hears their whispers all the same, a rising susurrus in her ears. She enters the room where her father waits without knocking, freezing when she sees John in conversation with him and her uncle.
John breaks from the conversation, standing to meet her. Hero's pulse skitters, a sudden self-consciousness tingling through her skin, causing her arms to hang limp at her sides. She looks between the three most important men in her life and wonders what they could be discussing.
"Daughter!" Her father smiles — such a contrast to their last meeting. He rises from his chair, bustling over to her.
Hero holds herself still, glancing first to John and then Antonio. Both men tense, watching the scene unfold.
Her father touches her cheek with gentle fingers, his gaze soft. "My beloved child… you have been much misused… and I, in part, responsible. Forgive an old man his follies. I was blinded, but now I see what has always been true. In virtue, you outshine us all. My greatest honour is you."
This is the father Hero knows, the one who has held her, cherished her, loved her since birth. Her eyes warm and she blinks, not willing to break into tears again. When he moves to hug her, she does not recoil, instead returning his embrace. Over his shoulder, she sees John and Antonio relax.
"I have news that shall brighten this bleak day and gild it forever in your memory," her father tells her excitedly, turning to the others. "But I will let you tell her, son."
Her father steps back and John takes his place, an awkwardness to his motions, hands flexing at his side, panic in his gaze. Hero does not understand the reason, but his fear is palpable, prickling the hairs on the back of her neck, her own palms breaking into sweat, her heart beating the same nervous beat.
"Hero…" he starts, a tremor in his voice, normally so collected. "I have — have treated with your father — and he has honoured me with the right — the right to ask — if you will — if you will marry me and take me for — for your husband?"
Hero stares, his words settling in her mind as gentle as the fall of snow…
And then, nothing.
:-x-:
John sees Hero's eyes roll into the back of her skull and lunges to catch her, heart vaulting into his throat.
Leonato and Antonio rush to his side, all of them looking down at the unconscious Hero cradled in his arms
"Oh dear…" Leonato glances at John, releasing an anxious titter, "I dare make her answer — yes."
John stares at him a beat then looks to Antonio. "Call for help."
Antonio rushes for the door and John gazes down into Hero's lifeless expression. He swallows; inside him the wild beast whines.
This is his fault.