"You have a rare heart, to forgive as you do."

They walk through the garden, their arms brushing as they move. He should place a more appropriate distance between them, but his body will not obey, gravitating to hers.

"It is not so hard when the remorse is sincere," she replies, her voice soft. "Revenge is what caused the trouble and I wanted no more of that."

"You are wise," John murmurs. Once he might have called her naïve, but — he saw to that, didn't he?

She gives a wry smile. "When you besmirched my name, you made me like yourself. I understood why you acted as you did. And I forgave you, because that was my power. Everything that came after was a surprise. Though not unwelcome."

Her fingers flit across his knuckles and he stares, unbelieving. "I cannot fathom how I convinced you I was worth your attention."

"Oh, a dearth of good conversation partners."

John snorts. "Alack! If I were the better option."

She grins. "You were the lesser evil, if you can believe it."

"I could not, if it were not you who spoke it."

She gives him a warm look and turns her gaze back to the path. "No one else understood what it was to be ruined on a word. Then put back together again, forever altered. Everyone could see the cracks and still acted as if nothing had changed. As if I had not changed."

She runs her fingers along the hedge, pausing where the emerald leaves turn a tawny brown.

"Then there was you and this strange bond between us. You saw the world as I did. We were the same. Only when I was with you did I feel like a real person, instead of someone's idea of who I should be. You made me feel as if I could choose for myself. You would never ask for my forgiveness, but your regret was the truest of anyone's. You did not sway me with tearful laments, but an honest effort to make amends. I knew if I asked you to stay away, you would, and it made me want you all the nearer. Through your actions, I saw the truth of your character, and from then… I was captivated."

His heart thuds against his ribs. Somehow, he keeps his voice composed, "The rabbit hopping into the fox's jaws."

She spins, eyes sparking. "You cast yourself as the hunter, but truly I led the chase. You, my dour fox, heard the rustling in the bushes and mistook a rabbit for the breeze."

"Can you fault my wonderment?" He sweeps his eyes across her gentle features, admiring the fan of her lashes, the blush in her cheeks, those plush carmine lips parted in a smile. "No one would have wagered on us becoming friends."

"You do make things difficult for yourself, dearest." Her fingers flutter across his chin, her gaze turning wistful. "What might have been… if you were not so blinded by revenge, and I, less in awe of a soldier's glory…"

Not for the first time, Claudio's name dangles between them. John dares not utter it. Lest the very mention break whatever spell has Hero caressing him so.

"But we are here and I would not change a single line of our story."

John does not reply; his own pages blank.

"MAMMMAAA!"

Leo rounds the corner, running as fast as his little legs will allow, pursued by a mob of chickens snapping at his heels.

Hero releases an exasperated cry. "Leo! I have told you not to bother the birds!"

"MAMMA!" The boy wails, making a beeline for her.

She hurries forward, scooping him into her arms and out of reach of the irate fowl who halt before her. She pins them with a stern look and the hens ruffle their feathers, waddling off. John watches them go, mirth mixing with wonder.

"You are safe, my little lion." Hero cradles her son, giving him a chiding look. "Now promise me, you will not pester the chickens again. Or try to steal their eggs."

Leo pouts. "I was looking for treasure." She arches an eyebrow and he groans. "I promise."

"Good, now keep your promise. I might not always be there to protect the brave knight from the ferocious dragons." She swings him around, making him giggle. Then, lowering him safely to the ground, she slips her hand through his. "Come, we shall find the others."

Leo beams, reaching out a hand to John. "Papà too."

John stiffens, regarding the outstretched hand.

"It will not bite," Hero teases.

He throws her a narrow look that widens her grin and accepts the boy's hand. Together, they set off, Leo swinging between them, gushing about dragons and treasure. Over his head, Hero smiles at John and his chest tightens, ivy filling his lungs.

:-x-:

The days pass like this, taking his cues from others. John performs his part, feeling like an actor without the script, forced to improvise. Now and then he recalls something, a fleeting déjà vu, as intangible as moonlight. There are things he just knows — the name of a workhand, the average harvest, where a book sits on a shelf, or the vegetables Leo will not eat. The past dogs his heels, shadows flittering at the corners of his vision. When he turns to pin them down, they evaporate like smoke. The harder he grasps, the less he holds.

The doctor removes his bandages, checking on him regularly. When John tells him that his memories have not returned, the crinkle in his brow deepens but he does not appear much surprised.

"The mind is complex. Healing will take time."

(John does not hurl the water jug at the wall, but it takes several deep breaths to resist the urge.)

He feels like an intruder in someone else's life. He keeps waiting for someone to shout impostor! But no one does. Instead, they all smile, pleased to have him there, welcoming him into their fold. Whenever someone references an instance he does not remember, sympathy will flash across their faces and John will bite his tongue, to prevent from lashing out. These days, his mouth is full of blood.

It is no one's fault, which makes it all the worse. There is nowhere to direct his rage and frustration boils beneath his skin. He loathes to be pitied, to be disadvantaged, others knowing more about himself than he. It reminds him of the courtiers whispering behind his back as a child. He hates this sense of helplessness, that he has no control over his own life; a puppet dancing to someone else's jig.

It is easier with the children. He has no past guilt to grapple with them and fewer expectations. They do not understand the extent of what he has forgotten, only that sometimes he gets confused and needs to be reminded. Children are always happy to tell adults when they are wrong. As long as he continues to play their games and do what they ask, there are no complaints, and John becomes more confident with every interaction.

He never thought long on the sort of father he would make. With his reckless ambition and blatant disrespect, he half expected to be dead before ever siring an heir. He resolved to be a better father than his own, which is no great feat. His children would be safe and cared for, he would be fair in his discipline and treat them equally. None of his children would be bastards.

The only thing he was not sure he could offer was love; there being so little of that in his life. But when the children spin to him, with bright eyes and adoring grins, something in him twists, clicking into place, and he finds himself returning their smiles.

He will do this, he resolves. For them, he will try.

:-x-:

"What are you boys up to?"

Leo and Tonio are huddled with Conrade and Margaret's sons (Matteo and Samuele) around an intricately crafted army of soldiers.

"War!" Leo proudly exclaims.

"Hmm." John crouches among them — in time to prevent Tonio from shoving one of the wooden horses into his mouth. "And what is your strategy?"

"Kill all the enemies!"

He hums. "An effective plan. But have you considered this…"

:-x-:

"Teaching the boys to make war?" Hero coos as they work through the household ledgers.

"Just some advice to make their game more interesting."

She sighs, her face clouding. "I pray they never know a real war."

He rests his hand over hers, their shoulders rubbing together. "Be assured, I am far too occupied with all this to cause my brother further trouble."

He gestures to the books and parchment spread before them. She laughs, turning so her front presses along the length of him, her fingers tiptoeing up his arm.

"If ever this is not enough to distract you, my dear rogue, I can certainly think of a few things that will."

Her breath tickles his ear and he shivers. His fingers twitch, but she twirls out of reach before he can react, sapphire skirts rippling like waves. His hands clench around polished mahogany, the table edge biting into his palms.

She picks out another book. "Taxes…"

John groans.

:-x-:

As promised, Leonato advises John on the governance of the estate and Antonio gives him a tour of their lands, introducing him to the workers and the local farmers. But it is Hero who manages the running of the vineyard, pouring over ledgers and brokering with the local traders. She talks him through procedures and finances, asking for his input, pointing out what innovations were his own, what they came up with together.

Most men do not want their wives embroiled in their affairs. They do not trust them with any important decisions. John has always believed most men are idiots. He is less surprised by Hero's capability than the swell of pride he feels watching her take command, this remarkable woman and natural leader.

How she and her cousin might have shaped the world if they were not disadvantaged by their sex…

Though he cannot pretend he does not appreciate this softer vessel. He wants to crush his mouth to hers with each display of brilliance. He never suspected stock inventories could arouse such feeling and it is mortifying how much restraint he has to exert. Instead, he focuses those energies on projecting himself back in time, so he can box his past self around the ears and order him to open his eyes and see what perfection stands before him.

But — watching Hero tuck the children into bed, regaling them with another story, her smile aglow with all the colours of a summer twilight — he is consoled. He figured it out eventually.

:-x-:

John knocks on Hero's door the morning she does not come down for breakfast, calling out so she knows it is him. He waits for her assent before entering and finds her seated in bed, knees drawn to her chest beneath the covers.

She smiles through tired eyes as he approaches, "Good morning."

"Good morning." He crosses to her side, noting her wan complexion. "Are you unwell?"

She shakes her head, curls spilling over her shoulders and across the pillows. "Nothing unnatural… it is the time of my bleeding."

"Ah."

John is not an idiot. He has known of women's monthly bleeding from an earlier age than most. But rarely has he reason to discuss it.

He rocks on his feet, uncertain. "Is… uhh… is the pain great?"

She gives a short nod. "Normally, I manage, but today is particularly bad."

"Can I do anything? Bring you anything?"

Her smile blooms and she hugs her arms to her front. "Will you be alright? I will rise as soon as I am able. You can manage the estate, that is no fear. But the children and my father — "

He touches her shoulder. "At ease. I promise no fires and no scheming. You can trust me."

She leans her head on his arm. "I do."

He stills, gazing down at her, his voice softening. "I will bring you a book, so the boredom does not kill you."

Her answering smile contorts in a wince, breathing sharply. "It is not — the boredom that will — ugh — kill me."

Concern thunders through him. "Are you sure you are well?"

She offers a weak smile. "Sadly, this is nothing unusual."

"We men are so ignorant of the strength of women." He brushes the hair from her face. "Send for me if you need of anything."

She catches his hand, pressing it to her cheek, her lips grazing his knuckles. "Thank you, John."

He nods and leaves. Not until he is out of the room does he breathe again, dragging his hand over his jaw.

As promised, he brings her a selection of books, something telling him the ones she likes best. Along with them, he places a bowl of strawberries, which earned a smile from Ursula when he made the request. He takes care of matters in her absence, speaks with Leonato, chuckles alongside Antonio, and leads the children on an expedition around the garden, picking flowers, which they then place at their mother's bedside.

By late afternoon, Hero is well enough to join them and she partakes in the usual over-supper cheer. That night, John leads the bedtime tale — one with a cunning fox, foolish huntsmen, and not a single prince. Squashed upon the bed, the children draped across her, Hero smiles, and warmth spreads through John, his skin fitting like his own.

:-x-:

The day is golden, the sky a cloudless blue. They spread their blankets across the hillside, breaking out the picnics. The adults laugh together, sharing food and wine, while the children chase each other through the wild grass. John finds his tongue loosened, contributing to the conversation as he lounges next to Hero, chuckling with the others.

The peace is shattered as Leo and Clarissa come crashing onto the blanket.

"Mamma! Clarissa tripped me! Look, I am bleeding!"

"That is not true! I never touched him!"

Their squabbling disturbs Tonio, who until then had been happily munching on grapes in his mother's lap. Now, the babe begins to wail and Hero flusters between her three squalling children.

"Come on, howler. Your siblings have your mother under siege." John scoops Tonio into his arms, carrying him off to the side.

He hushes the babe, bouncing him as Hero has shown him. Tonio screams and hurls his grapes at his father. Realising his snack is gone, the toddler's wails increase, his face turning puce.

John winces. "I see you have my temper."

There is a snort from Conrade's direction, but John does not look up from his son.

"I know, I know. You have a rage that blazes fiercer than the fires of Troy. But take care not to scorch yourself in your anger. It is a beautiful day and the company pleasing. It would be a shame to waste it in ill-humour."

Tonio huffs but calms, whether from his father's soothing tone or he does indeed glean some meaning. The babe slumps against John's shoulder and he rocks him, returning to the picnic. Clarissa and Leo are gone to wreak havoc with the other children and Hero smiles as he sits down.

"Thank you."

"Of course."

He hands another bunch of grapes to the squirming Tonio, who snatches them eagerly, shoving them into his pudgy cheeks.

The children run shrieking as Antonio lumbers after them, hunched over with his arms raised, surprisingly swift for his age. "RAWR! I AM A HUNGARY OGRE AND I AM GOING TO GOBBLE UP ALL THE CHILDREN! RAAWWWRRR!"

Ursula comes to their rescue, prodding Antonio with her parasol. "Back! Back! You nasty ogre!"

He recoils, toppling to his knees. "AH! No! I am sorry, I was just so hungry!"

The laughing children take advantage of his defeat, piling on top of him and tickling him.

"OH! OH NO! NOT TICKLES! TICKLES ARE MY WEAKNESS! AAAHHHH! NOOO!"

"His acting is improving," Conrade remarks.

"It could scarcely become worse," chuckles Leonato.

"He keeps us entertained," Hero says kindly.

"Ever the diplomat," John teases in her ear.

She sends him a warm look. "One of us should be."

"Remember when that acting troupe visited a year or so ago? They cast him as a tree," Margaret titters.

"I remember his performance was wooden," Conrade utters.

"OH, FOUL!" Margaret swats his arm. "From the very mouth I kiss."

Conrade grins, giving her a look like he wants to kiss her now.

"I thought he was the donkey," Leonato muses.

"That was another year. You recall that peculiar play about the faeries…"

John listens to them reminisce, the grapes souring on his tongue, and reaches for the wine.

"Have I said what Beatrice wrote in her last letter?" Hero chimes in. "It is most amusing, Benedick has been teaching the girls to swim…"

:-x-:

John's head is a maelstrom, his temper like the tide. One moment he is content, sitting in the garden while the children play, or laughing with the other workers as they tend to the vines. Another, that restless serpent has its fangs in his throat and he locks his jaw to prevent the spit of venom.

Hero senses these shifts in his mood, steering the conversation onto another topic, or inventing some excuse that allows him to slip away, the others distracted. Her manipulation is so subtle, it took a while for John to notice what she was doing.

He is grateful.

He is incensed.

That she see through him so clearly, that she seeks to manage him like a raging animal —

He wants to bite down on those slender fingers that flit across his skin, combing back his hair. He wants to bury his face in her neck and drown in her scent. He wants to tear down the curtains and rip up the floorboards and, most of all, he wants to scream.

"Papà! Papà!" Clarissa and Leo chorus, racing up to him and tugging on his sleeves. "Will you come tell us a story?"

John grits his teeth, his head pounding. "What?"

Clarissa falters at his brusque tone. "We… we wanted… will you tell us… the… the Cat in the Boots?"

Ice spears his blood at the mention of the bedtime tale. He hears the cadence of his mother's voice, remembers the weight of a bone-hand limp in his own.

"No."

"But—"

"No," he barks and the children shrink back. Disgust crashes through him and he pinches his eyes shut, muttering a gruff, "Not tonight."

He stalks down the hall before he can worsen the damage. As he goes he hears the hurt confusion in Leo's voice and Clarissa's cutting rebuke. His nails bite into his palm and he barricades himself in his study.

Hero finds him there, wearing a hole through the floor. "John."

He stiffens — the beast inside him raises its head, scenting prey. She steps inside, gentling the door closed behind her, and approaching him like a skittish horse.

He turns his back to her. "Go."

"And leave you with your thoughts?" The floorboards creak as she closes the distance between them. His shoulders tremble, tensed. "You are not alone, John. I am here."

He whirls, catching her hand before she can touch him. "I am alone. In this, I am alone." Hazel eyes stare back at him and he sighs, dropping her hand. "Go. I do not want to hurt you."

"You would never — "

"Hero," he cuts her off, slumping — he is tired, so, so tired — "I hurt you every day. I see it in your face. Every day I do not remember."

Her breath hitches. He looks away so he does not have to watch the pain split across her face.

"The weeks are passing and my memories have not returned. Soon it will be a month."

"It matters not," she insists, reaching for him. "John, it matters not."

He captures her wrists, holding them away from him. "You cannot say those ten years do not matter."

She winces and he releases her. But it is his words and not his hands that bruise her. "Yes, of course — of course they matter — of course I cherish them and am grateful but — but memory cannot hold a torch to the present." She buries her fingers in his shirt, the candlelight glimmering in her eyes. "I would burn my past for a future with you."

He clasps the edge of the desk. "And here I stand, a husk of ash."

She inhales sharply. "And—? And—? Is it worth the trade?"

"Hero…" he expels an aching breath, bowing his head to rest on hers. "I cannot remember our children… their births… their first words… their first steps. I cannot remember building our — this life together. That moment you agreed to be my wife. My only memories of you in a wedding dress is that cursed day. So how can I trust — how can I trust any of this is real? That it is mine."

Her fingers tighten in his shirt and he folds his arms around her shivering frame. "It is not fair."

His fingers glide through her corkscrew curls. "You are so lovely. And I am Tantalus reaching for the apple…"

If he allows himself to want, to hope, all this will wither in his palm.

She shoves from him, eyes wet and furious. "I cannot keep having the same conversation! You cannot keep breaking my heart! You are not the only one who can quote the classics, John. I am like Sisyphus, and you, my boulder-brained husband. Every time I think we have moved forward, you roll back down the hill, crushing me in your wake and I cannot — I cannot keep doing this!"

She makes a sound like a dam collapsing and fat, angry tears blotch her face.

"I am the patient wife and the doting mother and the dutiful daughter and mistress to the whole estate and I could balance all these things when you were there to support me too but now there is rot in our foundations and I do not know what to do!" Her voice pitches near hysterical as her breathing comes too fast, too shallow.

Panicked, he reaches for her. "Hero — !"

She recoils, folding in on herself. "It is not fair! We were happy! So gloriously happy! Why has this happened! Why! Oh God! WHY!"

He takes her in his arms and they crumple in a heap on the floor.

Hero whimpers into his chest. "It is not fair, it is not fair."

"I know, sweet… I know." He feathers kisses across her brow, cradling her face, and wiping away her tears. "You are perfect. I promise. You are perfect …I do not deserve you."

"John…" she sighs, ragged and frustrated.

She kisses him.

He stills.

Her mouth is warm honey, pulling him under treacle flumes. Some distant part of his brain tells him to close his eyes but John is mesmerised by the sight of her red lips pulsing against his own. She is so close, freckled and beautiful. She kisses fierce and gentle and agonised and adoring, like Hero is pouring her whole self into it and —

She pulls back, a faint pop as they part. He leans forward, chasing her lips, but her hand stops him, fanning over his cheek. "I do not mean to belittle your plight. What you are coping with — is terrifying. But please — I cannot live in this limbo — waiting, hoping you will let me in. Only to slam into another wall. Please, John, please. Do not waste the present grieving the past. I love you, here and now."

He stiffens at the words; but even as his body turns to stone, he feels his resolve crumbling. Her lips linger on his temple — the fractures spreading — then she rises, gathering her skirts and climbing from his lap.

He watches, dazed, as she moves to the door. "Make peace with yourself, John. Or you shall forever be at war."

Then she is gone in a flutter of skirts and, with her, the sun. Darkness blots the window and John sinks against the bookshelf, raking his hands through his hair and over his face.

Fuck.