"For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?"
"For them all together."
- Benedick and Beatrice, Much Ado About Nothing, Act 5, Scene 2
"You have not thanked me," Pedro croons as he swings back in John's chair, boots kicked up on the desk.
John turns from the mirror to glare at him. "What could I have to thank you for."
Pedro cocks his head. "Besides your life and pardon?" He grins. "If not for me, you never would have come to Messina and met your fair bride."
John huffs, fiddling with his cuffs. "If it had been left to you she would have wed Claudio."
Pedro waves his hand. "Let us not dwell on what is not. This is your day, John."
John grimaces at his pallid reflection, insides slithering, wet and nauseous. God, do not let him be sick.
Pedro stands, coming up behind him in the mirror. "You look like you may swoon. If you do, aim to do so in reach of Hero. I am sure she will appreciate the poetic symmetry of you fainting into her arms."
"I will stab you," John wheezes.
"And get blood all over your formal jacket? Not today, I think."
"I hate you."
Pedro pats his shoulder. "I know."
John resists the urge to break his arm and instead adjusts his parting for the fourth time.
Pedro laughs. "You cannot truly be nervous? The lady adores you!"
John frowns, his mouth tasting of iron. He knows Hero loves him, but should she…? Will she one day wake up from the romantic vision she has crafted and realise she is miserable with her pariah husband? John does not think he can survive watching her fall out of love with him.
To Pedro, he mutters, "What? You do not think I coerced her into this match, villain that I am?"
Pedro hums. "You know what your problem is, John?"
A muscle in John's jaw ticks. "I am looking at one."
"You think too hard," Pedro informs, flicking his forehead.
John slaps his hand away. "Ugh, piss off."
Pedro brandishes his infuriating smile. "Lord, with such charms as yours, it is no wonder Hero fell for you." John shoves him and Pedro goes, chuckling. "Peace, John, peace. I only jest. The lady loves you very much. Her strange tastes, I fear, are a permanent affliction."
John heaves a long-suffering sigh. "Why did I allow you in here?"
"You were in too anxious a state to prevent me — stop fidgeting with your jacket, you look fine."
John yanks at the collar of his shirt, finding it stifling.
Pedro bats his hands away. "Just breathe, John. Breathe."
John scowls at him, but follows his lead, breathing in and out, in and out…
Pedro tuts, "You do make much ado about nothing."
John sags, heartbeat calming enough for him to retort, "God, I would prefer Benedick to you."
Pedro fixes him with a bland look. "That is a lie."
"It is," John admits, then backs away from his brother. "Why are you even here? Come to watch me suffer?"
"It is your wedding day, John. Is it inconceivable that I wish to see my brother happy?"
John arches an eyebrow.
Pedro huffs. "You may think I love you not… but despite your efforts to dethrone me, the attempt on my life, and the many, many faults of your character… sometimes… there are rare instances… when you are even… agreeable. And, with Hero, you have become… more agreeable."
John considers him, then says flatly, "Try again."
Pedro flashes a rueful smile and scratches his beard. "Also… after the fiasco with Claudio, Leonato is likely to bar me from returning and the wine here is divine. A familial tie shall serve me well."
John jabs a finger into his brother's chest. "For that, I will forever deny you the best wine."
Pedro's smile is catlike. "You shall have to marry Hero first."
John grunts and turns from his brother. His gaze lands on the ribbon still tied around his wrist. He touches the silk, picturing Hero — kindness overflowing in a honeysuckle smile, the brightness of her voice, the vibrant green and sun-warmed brown of her eyes transfixed as he speaks, coaxing free the words which clot in his throat, the jut of her chin and the growing boldness of her voice, her softness beneath his touch, a laugh like starlight, the flash of mischief in her gaze, so gentle, so patient, so beautiful…
He will not disappoint her now. His Hero… may he be worthy of her…
He will be worthy of her.
Resolved, he squares his shoulders. "I am ready."
:-x-:
Hero's nerves are all aflutter, she feels as if she might float away, feet barely on the ground. Joy suffuses through her and she twirls the skirts of her gown, feeling like a princess.
She shall soon be a princess. Married to Don John. Married to John.
Beatrice smooches Hero on the forehead, whispering assurances to her, before hurrying after Ursula and Margaret to take their places down the aisle. Hero's heart is light with love and she floats to her father's side, giddy with anticipation.
He smiles, ruddy cheeks appling beneath his grey beard. "You look beautiful, my daughter." He touches her cheek and falters, eyes wet. "You are… you have always been… my greatest blessing."
Hero's bottom lip trembles, warmth blossoming through her, heating her eyes. She throws her arms around the man who loved her first. "Thank you, father."
He holds her, savouring a moment's embrace before parting. Leonato gives his arm to her and they walk out together.
Sunlight pours over Hero, the air sweetened with the familiar fragrance of fruits and flora, the birds sing from their nests and the insects buzz their greetings. She has often traversed this path, between the villa and the chapel. Now floral garlands are strung across poles and pews have been placed outside, full of people. It seems as if all of Messina have come to see her wed.
She walks the aisle on her father's arm, taking in the familiar faces, these people she has known since she was a child, who have watched her grow and grown beside her. They smile as she passes, bowing their heads and murmuring kind wishes. Ahead of her, Beatrice, Ursula, and Margaret are lined up, clutching their bouquets. Hero mourns that her mother cannot be amongst them to watch her wed, but recognises the same maternal love and pride in the smiles of these women who raised her. She sucks in a breath, clutching the flowers in her hands, and feels her spirits strengthen, her nerves dispelling. She walks on.
There is her uncle, snivelling into his handkerchief. There is the Friar, looking on her as a shepherd does his lamb. There is Don Pedro, and Benedick, and Conrade…
And there is John, looking more groomed and prince-like than he ever has before. So handsome her smile bursts across her face. His hair is combed so neatly. She shall be sure to muss it later. She likes him a little wild.
He watches her approach with such a wonder it could make a girl's knees go weak. Like she is air and he cannot breathe.
Somehow, her legs hold, her feet seeming to move on their own accord, walking on air towards him. Their eyes never leave one another. She reaches the end of the aisle, standing before him. She has to restrain from bouncing on her toes, all ajitter. This moment feels like a dream. Like a memory. As if all her life has been leading her here… to John… to their future together…
Friar Francis begins the ceremony. Hero and John recite their lines, an echo of each other. He holds her gaze throughout and she sees in him a reflection of herself; the same love, the same devotion, the same promise.
"I do."
"I do."
Hero hardly hears the cheers and applause as the Friar pronounces them man and wife, already rushing to meet John, to meet her husband.
His lips finding hers, fitting together like two halves becoming whole. She sighs into him, here at last. After so much hope and heartache. To have her soul requited, her dearest wish fulfilled. This man is hers and she is his and ooh how she loves him.
Benedick clears his throat; the celebrations quieten down. Hero and John part, all heads turning to the Count of Padua. His eyes are only for Beatrice.
"Do not you love me?"
Hero smacks her hand against her husband's chest as if John might somehow miss the scene unfolding in front of them.
Beatrice freezes like a rabbit before the hunter as everyone turns to her. "Why… no. No more than reason."
Hero groans, bowing her head into John's arm.
Benedick flinches, his gaze darting from the crowd to Beatrice, and his voice goes shrill, "Why, then your uncle and the princes have been deceived. They swore you did."
"Do not you love me?" Beatrice demands, hands on her hips.
Benedick scoffs. "Why, no. No more than reason."
Beatrice bristles. "Why, then my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula are much deceived. For they did swear you did."
"They swore that you were almost sick for me."
"They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me."
The quarrelling pair go back-and-forth, protesting their love, to the amusement of the onlooking crowd. Hero shares a smile with John, feeling his laughter rumble through his chest. Her gaze meets with Don Pedro's and he winks at her.
"Come, cousin," Leonato chortles, interceding before further hearts can be broken, "I am sure you love the gentleman."
"And I'll be sworn that he loves her," Don Pedro declares, snatching a piece of parchment from Benedick's pocket. "For here's a paper written in his hand. A halting sonnet of his own pure brain, fashioned to Beatrice."
Benedick and Beatrice lunge for the paper, with Beatrice victorious.
Now, Hero plays her trump card, her sette bello. She darts to Margaret who, with a wink, hands her the paper that Beatrice was careless enough to leave in her dress pocket for the maid to find. Hero grins, wielding it with relish as she whirls on the tussling couple. "And here's another! Writ in my cousin's hand, stolen from her pocket, containing her affection unto Benedick."
Hero blocks Beatrice's attempt to grab the paper, handing it to the eager Benedick. The pair settle down to read their respective papers and Hero flies back to her husband, wrapping her arms around him.
"Imp," John murmurs, lips crooked against her temple.
As they read, twin smiles bloom across Benedick and Beatrice's faces.
"A miracle!" Benedick proclaims. "Here's our own hands against our hearts." He gives Beatrice a warm look. "Come, I will have thee. But, by this light, I take thee for pity."
There is a chorus of "Ooohhhs" from the crowd and Beatrice tosses her golden mane, "I would not deny you. But, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion — and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption."
"Peace!" Benedick stills her face in his hands, his smile surging forth. "I will stop your mouth."
The crowd hoots and cheers as the two of them finally kiss.
Some brides would be put-out if another stole their moment. But Hero, who thought she could not be happier, is effervescent to be sharing her wedding day with her beloved sister-cousin.
John kisses her brow. "Are you pleased, my mischievous wife?"
Hero near-vibrates at the epithet, beaming up at him. "Oh, ecstatic to see love's labour's won. And are you pleased, my trickster husband?"
"Pleased your cousin has found a way of ending Benedick's prattle."
Hero thumps his arm, no force behind the blow. "She is your cousin now — which makes Benedick your cousin as well."
John groans, dropping his head onto her shoulder as she shakes with laughter. He nuzzles her neck, mouth grazing her nape. "It is well you are worth a thousand Benedicks."
"Oh, a thousand Benedicks. That is quite the prize. However, I shall leave the Benedicks of the world to Beatrice." She hooks her fingers in his coat, bumping her nose against his. "The only man I want is you."
She feels the catch in his breath as her smile covers his own and she sinks into him. Her John, her husband, her soulmate, her heart.
"Come, come, let's have a dance!" Benedick calls. "Strike up, pipers!"
This pronouncement is met with cries of delight and the musicians start to play, the dancers forming circles.
"Will you dance, my lady?" John asks.
She beams at him and takes his hand. "With you as my partner? Always."
John's smile flames across his face and he raises her hand, pressing a kiss to her wrist, her soulmark, causing her pulse to flip.
And so, for the first time, but far from the last, husband and wife dance.
:-x-:
In their wedding chamber, amongst the rumpled sheets, Hero's hands roam his naked skin, like a blind woman learning his shape. John shudders beneath her palms. No one has touched him like this; as someone to behold. He had been hesitant to undress, a strange self-consciousness striking him, mingled with a fear that it would distress her to see Claudio's words. But she traces the marks inscribed across his flesh, unflinching at those which once cut.
"Do they bother you?" He asks, needing to be sure. She glances at him questioningly and he gestures to himself. "The marks."
"Not now." She runs her hand down his chest, John's blood rushing in the same direction. "Not here. Not on your skin."
John's throat tightens and he bows his face into her curls, breathing in the scent of her.
"Obedient… dim… dull… you must have thought little of me," she mumbles, fingers dancing over his skin.
John strokes a silken lock between his thumb and finger. "I do not know if this is a comfort, but I tried not to think of my soulmate at all."
"I suppose there is nothing worth being curious about."
John catches her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him. "You think I care a fig for the words of others? Hero, to treat these words as a reflection of yourself is to compare a puddle to the ocean, a candle to the sun. You are much more. So much more."
The corners of her lips quirk and she rests her hand on his forearm. "Not boring then?"
"You are unlike anyone I have ever met."
Her smile flourishes and she throws her arms high in the air. It takes several seconds for him to comprehend her meaning and then his mouth goes dry.
Hero watches him beneath her lashes, her voice breathless. "What? Are you not curious?"
In a trance, John reaches out and, with her aid, eases the shift over her head. He stares at the naked swell of her breasts, the dark rings with their rosebud centres, perking before his gaze. And there, arching over the left, the vicious scrawl of 'Bastard'.
His gaze rakes over her, devouring the cruel words which clutter her skin. His chest aches like a bone shard speared through his lungs. He feels each slight as if someone has carved them into his own flesh.
"John…" Her gentle voice pulls him from drowning, like some reverse siren. She is looking at him with those same soft, adoring eyes. Her hand reaches out, caressing his beard.
His stomach clenches and there is a prickling beneath his skin as bile coats his tongue. "You should loathe me. Look how I scar you."
Those vicious taunts a desecration of her perfect form. He is a canker indeed, rotting her beautiful soul.
"Oh John…" her fingers glide along his cheek, "I love you because of them. Look at what you have endured. Look at what you have overcome. How could I know such courage and not love them, love you?"
He shakes his head, grimacing. "Do not romanticise me. I earned my scorn. I have done terrible things."
He flexes his hands, feeling as if the blood was still crusted under his nails. How can he touch her with sullied hands?
But she touches him, cupping his face between her palms and gazing at him with gut-wrenching devotion. "I do not know your whole story… maybe you will honour me with it someday. But I know that a child could not deserve the abuse you received, John. If you are wicked, it is because the world was first."
One hand leaves him, slipping to her ribs and he sees her trace a word there — 'murderer'. He swallows, cold.
Hero exhales, fingers travelling up her body. "I know the worst of you… the darkest parts. I know how they weigh on your soul. Maybe I should have been repulsed, but I knew… as somehow I have always known… there is more to you. And now that I know you, John… the good and the rough… I find there is nothing in you that I do not love." She drags her lips across his chest, the action somehow holy. "I love you, John," she speaks it to his heart, "All of you."
He dives into her, bundling her against him, mouth on her collarbone, venerating flesh and freckles.
"Hero… Hero…" He wants to tell her something beautiful and there is nothing lovelier than her name. "...I am yours… all of me is yours."
She smooths back his hair, clutching his shoulders as her lips brush his brow. "All of you… all of me… good parts, bad parts… we are each other's… for better or worse…"
"For better," he murmurs into her kiss and feels her smile.
:-x-:
"I shall not be able to go shirtless. Not in public," John muses, brushing his hand over the ridges of her spine, concerned less with decency and more about protecting his wife's reputation. He will not risk her. Not with marks like these.
Hero hums, the sound vibrating through his sternum, her arms draped around his abdomen. "A tragedy."
His mouth curves wickedly and he tugs one of her curls. "I do it for your sake. The first time you saw me without a shirt, you walked into that doorpost."
Hero bolts upright. "I did no such thing!"
John coaxes her back to him, doing nothing to hide his smirk. "Almost."
Hero huffs, snuggling into him. "Insufferable fiend."
He peppers kisses along her brow. "Beloved Hero."
:-x-:
Hero has a new ritual. Instead of tending to each mark, she saves her caresses for her husband, running her fingers along his muscled planes and those softer areas, bestowing kisses to each jut and groove, her name spilling from his lips like a prayer. When she is finished and he is come undone, he will treat her to the same satisfaction, the same tenderness and adoration, until she is overflowing with his love.
Sometimes, it is he who unravels her first. Sometimes, it is a frenzied but harmonious exchange between them. Always an equal give and take.
She knows each scar on his skin and those hidden beneath. She knows how to soothe his wilder tempers and how to coax a boyish laugh. She knows the rough and raw of him, his ugliest parts, those sides of which he is ashamed. She knows the best of him, the compassion and the generosity hidden behind a stoic front as he addresses the labourers and staff. She knows the whorls of his hands, darkened with soil or ink. She knows the crook of his smile, golden across his face and upon her skin. She knows him to his marrow and deeper still. She knows the whole of him, as he knows the whole of her.
Never does their love falter, but grows and grows with each passing day, month, year. There are changes — silver in his hair, stretch marks across her stomach, sunspots crowding their skin. Their soulmarks are no exception; old wounds healing.
'Unlovable' is slow to leave, fading gradually until the time their children learn to speak, scrambling over their father, shrieking and giggling, while Hero leans against him. She still wears her ribbon around her wrist, as much a symbol of her love as the ring around her finger.
'Bastard' never leaves, but softens at the edges, no longer a scar. Hero cherishes the precious mark. ("It led me to you," she tells her husband when he tenses at the sight of it and guides his hand over her breast. "I love it, just as I love you.")
New marks appear. Love is not without its tribulations and marriage and parenthood come with their own unique challenges. Words spoken in the heat of the moment linger long after honest apologies are exchanged — a sort of penance for allowing tempers to get the better of them and lashing out at their partner. These marks are few, but heaviest upon them. That is the nature of things. They take the good with the bad. And there is far more good.
:-x-:
The children run shrieking as John stumbles after them, arms outstretched in his blindfolded state.
"Over here, John!" Pedro calls. "No! No! To your left! Left!"
"You are sending him in the opposite direction," Beatrice accuses from the safety of the sidelines.
Pedro flashes a roguish grin. "What? The purpose is not to be caught!" John goes still, managing to glare in his brother's direction though his eyes are covered. "Now, John. John. No rude gestures. There are children present."
Hero giggles and John twitches. Realising she has been detected, she makes to flee, but his reflexes are too fast, ensnaring her in his arms. She screams, laughing as he spins her around.
John chuckles, warm breath tickling her neck. "I have you."
"You do." She turns to face him, pushing up the blindfold to reveal his gorgeous umber eyes, gold dust glittering within. His fringe sticks up at odd-ends beneath the cloth and she runs her fingers through his beard, thicker now than in his youth. "I am glad you found me."
He leans into her, "I am glad it was you."
She presses her smile to his.
"Remember children are present!" Pedro shouts as they kiss.
"Remember I am present," Benedick protests, earning laughter from the children.
"You and Beatrice are just as bad," Pedro returns.
"Poor Uncle Pedro," Beatrice croons, "I do believe he feels left-out."
"We can change that!" Benedick declares. "Come on, kids!"
Pedro squawks and Hero and John break apart in time to see all the children (and Benedick) pile upon Pedro in a group hug, Beatrice cackling in the background.
"If you told me when we met this would be our future," John tells her, "I would have thought you mad."
Hero smiles up at him. "And now?"
"I think we are all mad." He kisses her forehead. "And I would not change a thing."
Hero grins. "Say that again later tonight after Pedro and Benedick have had a few drinks and Beatrice's tongue is its sharpest."
He leans his head upon hers, stroking her cheek. "Not a thing."
Hero's heart skips a beat, ever after all these years, and she rises on her toes, leaning into him. "We should save Pedro from our children."
"In a minute," John hums and kisses her again.
Pedro: Is no one going to help me? I am under siege.
Beatrice: You love the attention.
Fin.