The night before Hero and Claudio's wedding, John slept well for the first time in months, satisfied his revenge was in reach, sparing no thought for the innocent bride whose fate he sealed.

The night after his quarrel with Hero, John finds no rest, head pounding with the revelations of the day, a new discomfort in each position he tries, his old battle-scars aching. His heart drums in his ears, oppressed under the silence of the household. All he sees is Hero, her image etched in his mind —

Hero's smile, a flickering light in the shadowed room. How she flinched when he spoke of leaving, trembling like the lamb before the wolf. Pale as a ghost as she slipped from the room, eyes shining like shattered glass.

Hero's curls framing her face, narrating a bedtime tale to the children; her voice transforming from sweet to gruff for the different characters, contorting her features to the children's delighted laughter.

Hero in the garden, thriving with the flora as she speaks of their past. Proud and formidable, swearing she loves him.

Hero haloed in the morning glow, Tonio nestled in her arms, her smile a soft embrace.

Hero in her wedding gown, beaming as she walks down the aisle on her father's arm. Her terrified shriek as her would-be husband throws her to the ground; her lovely face tortured with Claudio and Don Pedro's violent revile. And him, twisting the dagger with his own mocking chastisement.

John wrestles sleep into a chokehold and, at last, passes out.

He dreams of white lace staining scarlet —

his hands dripping a dark puddle on the altar —

a bride walks to him, lifting her tattered veil to reveal a corpse —

flesh-eaten fingers reach inside his ribcage, wrenching out his heart —

Hero smiles, blood pouring from her lips, and presents the still-beating malformation as black as coal —

John wakes, soaked in sweat. He stumbles to the window, throwing it open. Night wanes into lavender plumes as dawn tiptoes rose prints across Messina's tumbling greens. The air is crisp, cool on his skin. He can taste the dew collecting in the fields.

He dresses haphazardly, not bothering to button the coat he throws on over his shirt. He creeps through the house. Silence is impossible with boots on these floorboards but anyone who hears him will mistake him for staff. He takes a few wrong turns but navigates his way out of the villa and into the grounds.

He pauses to draw breath, the world caught between dreams and waking. The moon and stars still cling to night's shroud even as the sun peeks over the hillside, ushered in by a chorus of birdsong. Gravel crunches under foot and he looks out across the rolling fields, emerald and gold. Above them, amber flames across sapphire skies. What sort of man would he be if he woke to this every morning?

His eyes flutter shut, a tranquil breeze sweeping over him, and the soldier's burden he carried long before his first campaign clatters from his shoulders. He breathes in, light and calming. For the first time in his life, he is not at war. For the first time, he feels something close to peace.

"Beautiful morning, is it not?"

John whirls.

Leonato is seated on a bench, smiling at him. "Rare to see you at this hour. Come to watch the sunrise?"

"I — I fancied a walk."

"Excellent." Leonato rises. "I shall join you."

"Uh — no — I don't—"

Leonato wags his cane. "Do not attempt to dissuade me. I am plenty sprightly for my age."

Sensing any protest will be futile, John inclines his head. "Sir."

They wander down the path; John's strides are languid, matching the elder's pace. For a while there is silence between them, savouring the morning song. Of course, John's hopes of avoiding conversation are dashed as Leonato speaks.

"I always watch the sunrise when I can. Messina is beautiful all times, but at this hour it is magical."

John hums, looking out over the lands so he does not have to meet the elder's gaze. He understands what he means, it is an enchanting sight, something from a painting or poem.

"I am fortunate to have called such a place my kingdom," Leonato continues, not minding his stoic companion. "Now it is yours."

"Sir?"

Leonato chuckles. "I do not expect I have to explain inheritance to you, son. You did marry my daughter, after all."

"So I did." John rubs the ring on his finger. "I am amazed you consented to the union."

He knows that a prince, even a bastard, is a desirable match. And, in spite of his slander proven false, Hero's reputation would have been tarred — especially if she then refused Claudio. It is not the tale Hero told, but John wonders if it were not desperation that drove Leonato to hand his beloved daughter to the villain. The thought has John's stomach twisting, a hollow nausea.

"I admit, I had my misgivings when your attachment became apparent. But I could not refuse Hero her happiness. And happy, you have made her."

John did not make her happy last night.

"Ahh," Leonato utters, a shrewd gleam in his gaze. "Yesterday was difficult, was it not?"

Hell, John is sick of others perceiving him so well. But then, he is playing cards with himself. Everyone already knows his hand.

"Excuse us our inconsiderations. You look so much the same we forget you do not remember us as we do you."

John is quiet, watching as a bird flies into the bush, a worm caught between its beak, breakfast for its chicks. His nails grit in his palm.

"When I first understood how you wronged my daughter, I wanted to rend you limb from limb," Leonato admits, a hint of the fury he must have felt at his daughter's disgrace in the rasp of his voice.

When John plotted with Borachio, he knew his lies may prove enough to kill their host. The serpent in his chest shifts, scales sliding, as he recalls how he had not cared — even relished in another person's misery. They meant to muzzle him but look how the dog bites.

Now he understands he misjudged the old warrior's strength — and the strength of Hero against her accusers. It was through her, his schemes were unravelled. Not his noble half-brother or witty Benedick or the oh so gallant Claudio. But Hero's honest conviction and the kindness which made her so well-loved. It was she who had been his undoing.

And, it seems she is still.

"But you have proven yourself a better man than your actions painted you," Leonato carries on, unaware of the colour bleeding from John's face. "No one could care as well for my lands, or for my daughter, as you have, John." He rests his hand on the bastard's shoulder and the serpent rears its head. "I am proud to call you son."

Poison fangs sink in his heart.

"No."

And John runs.

:-x-:

Run.

Run.

When John fled before, he had been running towards a future, towards freedom. Now he runs to escape the past. To escape himself.

Who is this man whose life he has stolen? Who everyone is able to forgive?

He has played many roles —

Son. Prince.

Brother. Bastard.

Champion. Commander.

Traitor. Penitent.

Villain.

Husband. Father.

He does not know himself. He is not Hero's tamed lover or Messina's dutiful lord. He is not the children's doting father or Leonato's worthy son-in-law. Nor is he the man who proudly declared himself a villain and threw an innocent woman to the wolves.

No. He is some mongrel crossbreed — just as they jeered when he was a child.

Everything and nothing.

Always nothing.

He is not running in any set direction, over the fields. His boots skid in the mud but he runs on. It is like being on the battlefield again; if he closes his eyes he can hear the trample of hooves, the cries of dying men. Are those bulges in the grass mounds or bodies?

He slows. Air scrapes through his lungs and he pants, staggering towards a tall tree. There is a large branch cracked on the ground and he halts, considering the splintered end. He marks on the tree where the branch must have broken. Easy enough for a small child to climb. Dangerous to fall.

He crumples, bowing his head between his knees. He exhales, flopping backwards onto the grass, and stares into cornflower sky.

:-x-:

John has not run far from the villa and it is not a long trek back, but he pauses several times at war with himself. As he enters the courtyard, he is greeted by the Spinone Italianos introduced to him before as Belch and Crab.

He crouches down, ruffling their shaggy heads. "Hello, scruffs."

"JOHN!" He looks up, standing as Hero charges towards him, barrelling into his chest. "KNAVE! BLAGGARD!" She pounds her fists against his front. "I should push you into the pond!"

Dishevelled curls spill across her shoulders, a robe hastily tied over her nightgown. Her eyes are wet with crimson streaks.

"Wretch. Ass." She clutches his shirt. "How dare you. How dare you! After what you said last night. And then you were gone from your room — and father said — he said you had run—" her voice splinters on a sob, "John — please! Do not forsake me! Do not forsake our children! Please!"

He catches her hands, pressing chapped lips to delicate fingers. "Forgive me, lady. I did not mean you distress."

Her hands tremble in his. "Do not — do not run. Please. I cannot — John. Stay with me. We will figure this out together. Just stay. Please."

She cups his cheek and his lashes shutter, leaning into her touch. "I am not — I am not the man you married."

"Oh John," she smoothes his beard, "You are so much more than you realise."

Brambles scratch in his throat. "After all I have done. Hero — None of this is right!"

"No. No, it is not — it is not right. No. The person who knows me best, knows me not. Who — who loves me most — loves me not."

Her voice cracks, the sound slicing through him. Crystals form in the corners of her eyes and he hates that he put them there. Hates that he has hurt her. Again.

"None of this — none of this is right. But I — I believe in us." Her voice builds in strength, the whisper of her fingers along his hairline. "I believe — I believe we can move forward from this. We can overcome it. I believe we can. I believe in us."

He shivers and his hand settles over hers. "And if my memories do not return?"

She trembles out a breath. "It is your heart, I love. It is your mind and your stubborn will. John—" her thumb presses into his skin, "Do not test me. I fought for you once and I will fight for you again. With or without your memories, I love you. Even if — even if you do not — even if you cannot — love me."

Her face fractures on those last fragile words though she tries to hide it. Something unfurls in his chest, its vines weaving between his ribs, constricting his lungs. He lowers her hand from his cheek and crushes his mouth to the centre of her palm. Her fingers feather across his cheek and he almost chokes.

"Hero — you deserve more — more than I can offer you."

"There is no price on what you offer me."

He swallows, squeezing her hand. "I will not pretend to you. I cannot be the man you want me to be."

She shakes her head and she looks so tired. "Just be you, John. That is all I want. Just be you. Infuriation that you are."

His lips graze her knuckles. "You are good, lady. If you will permit me, I would know you better."

The corner of her mouth curves. "I think I can condescend to your request, on behalf of us having three children together."

"My mind must be muddled, for I swear it was your cousin who thought herself the wit."

She laughs, weak but genuine, a slyness to her features that sends a frisson down his spine. "I am a poor match for my cousin. But you, my lord — I am a match for you."

Her lashes droop and she leans into him. A string goes taut in John's chest, drawing him towards her. His mouth is dry, her breath flutters across his chin. He lowers his head, eyes fixed on her lips, his pulse racing as she strains against him, rising to meet him —

The dogs bark.

John lurches backwards, looking around.

Margaret flaps her hands at the barking dogs. "Ssshhh! Ssshhh!" She notices Hero and John staring and pastes on a smile. "Oh, my lord and lady. Good morning! I — um — apologies for intruding."

"It is neither the first nor the worst time, Margaret," Hero answers, amusement tugging at her lips and John drags his gaze away, shoving all musings of how they might taste into a locked crate and hurling it into the ocean.

"True, my lady. True." Her knowing grin has John squirming before her expression settles into something more appropriate. "The children were wondering where their parents had gone."

Hero sighs, tucking a curl behind her ear. "And what excuse did you devise?"

"I told them you were planning a treasure hunt."

"Oh, that is good. But we have hidden no treasure."

Margaret winks. "No fear. Conrade is resolving that now."

Hero surges forward, clutching the serving woman's hands. "Margaret, you are a jewel. What we would do without you, I know not."

"Dear Hero, you shall never have to find out." She pecks her mistress on the cheek and saunters away.

John crosses to Hero's side and she turns her smile on him. His step falters.

"That spares us the morning."

"You forgave Margaret."

"I forgave you," she reminds him gently. "Margaret never meant me harm. She was an unwitting pawn in the whole affair."

"You forgave Conrade too."

She appears to measure her words, her voice low and careful. "There are few you trust and fewer you call friend. I did not mind him becoming part of our household. Indeed, he has made a pleasant addition and brings Margaret much joy."

John frowns. "What has Margaret to do with Conrade?"

"Well… they are married."

He gawks. "You are jesting? Your waiting woman married my conspirator?"

Not even the favoured one.

Hero's smile widens, dimples adorning her cheeks. "I do not jest. They married a couple of years after us and have sons around Leo's age. They play together often."

John tries to imagine his saturnine companion married to the vivacious serving woman. "I did not expect Conrade to share Borachio's tastes."

Hero chokes. His gaze whips to her, blanching at the thoughtlessness of his comment.

"I should not have—"

She waves her hand, laughing. "Oh, do not censor yourself for me. I enjoy your blunt speech. Upon it, I have sharpened my wit."

It takes a moment to recover from this unexpected reaction. "It is a wonderful wit. But that was crass of me."

Her fingers brush his own. "I would not have you muzzled for the world."

He dips his head. "My lady."

Her face is soft and knowing. Her words from the previous morning echo in his head: "I know you. And I love you."

"They are a strange match, but a good one. He makes her happy." She holds his gaze, unflinching.

He stares back into those hazel orbs ringed in green. There is gold dust in her eyes.

"Does he?"

"Yes."

Shrieks of laughter shake the tranquil morning as the children are set loose upon the garden.

Hero tugs his hand. "Come, we should secure breakfast while they are distracted."

John follows her into the villa, their fingers intertwined. In his chest, the vines shiver and creep.