"Prince, what a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you, my son?" Friar Francis greets him, rising from where he had been tending to the chapel garden.
John looks back the way he came before setting his shoulders and facing the Friar. "I — I find myself in need of — um — guidance."
He cringes around the word but the Friar smiles, directing him to a bench. "Of course, that is why I am here. Tell me what troubles you?"
John sits with a grimace. "Are you — did you hear of my accident?"
The Friar's face turns sympathetic. "Indeed, I was relieved to hear it was not more serious. But I understand from Leonato there are gaps in your memory."
"A ten year gap," he informs dryly. "Though some memories have returned… the most vivid end with Hero's resurrection. I believe credit goes to you for that particular miracle."
The Friar struggles through his shock. "I am — so sorry to hear that. I shall pray for your memories to return."
There is a barb on his tongue but John bites it back. "Thank you."
"I understand why you feel lost."
"You will tell me this is all part of God's plan."
The Friar straightens. "The Lord moves in mysterious ways. What seems a curse, may prove a blessing."
John expels a harsh breath. "This is punishment for my crimes."
Friar Francis considers him, his words careful, "Good prince… though you have not often confided in me, I have seen much change in you since our first encounter. I believe you are a righteous man and God, who knows us better than ourselves, will see this and has forgiven your trespasses."
John gazes up at the sun, feeling the scorch of Heaven's eye upon him. "God knows I am unworthy."
"God is steadfast in His love. If you are true in your penitence, He will not withhold His forgiveness."
John scoffs. "I am a bastard. And this the least of my sins."
"Ah," the Friar rubs his beard. "The circumstances of your birth are… unfortunate. But I do not believe this tars your soul. It is action and intent that makes a man."
"I have known few who see it so. No matter. I know which way the scales swing. I have done more evil than good."
"That you can remember." John meets the Friar's innocent gaze. "It is for the Lord to judge, but perhaps I can ease your burden. Confess to me your troubles, so I might grant you pardon."
John grits his teeth. Choosing to come here was challenge enough. He has no fondness for the Church. It tended to be those holiest who most scorned him and his mother — hypocrites themselves. He tolerated the Sunday services but no greater effort than that. John had been told enough times growing up that bastards went to Hell, and, in light of this, any attempt at virtue seemed a waste. No matter what the Friar preaches, John knows the Lord holds no love for him. The feeling is mutual.
But he sees Hero's face, turned towards the chapel ceiling, bathed in iridescent sunlight through the stained-glass windows, her hands clasped together, lips moving in prayer. He hears her voice through the bedroom walls asking God to guide him back to them, to save him from destruction. (His hand hovers over the door handle as her voice dissolves into sobs. The door remains shut but John does not sleep, hearing again that crack in her voice, seeing her lovely face anguished with heartbreak).
He is not a pious man. But for Hero, he will try.
The words come slow, like picking at a crusted scab until the blood begins to ooze. The sun crawls across the sky as John hacks open his rusted armour, pouring out his soul in thick, oily rivulets — Aragon, his childhood, Pedro, his rebellion, Messina, Hero — until finally, finally, the water runs clean.
His heart thunders in the silence that follows as Friar Francis reflects on all John has revealed.
"Thank you, John. For your honesty."
John stares at him, waiting for the blow. But the sword remains teetering overhead.
"The Lord sees your penitence is sincere and pardons your transgressions. Remain humble and dutiful to He, and seek no harm to others, and you will see the pearly gates of Heaven."
John gawks. "Is that — all?"
Friar Francis tilts his head. "What more do you require?"
John slumps back, his eyes flitting to the cross on the chapel and then to his hands. "It should not be this easy."
"Is this easy? Were you not so repulsed by your actions that you choked as you recounted them? Did I mistake that shame, which agonised your features? And still, you laid bare the rough and raw of your soul, offering yourself up to a judgement which lesser men would shrink from." His face softens. "You are not the man who committed those evils. Your remorse is earnest and your redemption earned. But you do not need the forgiveness of the Lord, or I, or anyone else. It is you who must forgive yourself, John. Only then will you have peace."
("Make peace with yourself, John. Or you shall forever be at war.")
He inhales, a sharp ache in his breast, and breathes out. It does not dislodge those poisoned fangs.
He stands. "Thank you for your time, Friar."
The Friar's smile is gentle. "Of course. I am here if ever you wish to speak again."
:-x-:
John strides from the chapel, his thoughts no less turbulent than before. Walking back to the villa, he plucks a rose from a bush, the brambles scratching his hand. Its pink heart blooms into white petals, a sweet scent about it. He grasps the stem in his fist.
As he travels through the rows, he spies Hero on the path ahead, conversing with some of the workers. He halts and waits for her to notice him. She does almost immediately, finishing her conversation and gliding to him.
"No one has seen you since breakfast. What did you find that occupied you so?" Her voice is light but there is a nervousness about her, a shadow of that first morning he ran.
He presents the rose. "For you."
Her eyes brighten, accepting the token. "Oh, sweet. Thank y— John! You are bleeding!"
He follows her gaze to his hand and sees the spout of blood where one of the thorns must have pierced him. In truth, he had noticed the pain, but had done nothing to alleviate it. It was a grounding ache and felt like retribution.
He says none of this to Hero. Whether or not she guesses, she does not comment. Instead, she fixes the rose in her hair, pulling out a handkerchief and bandaging his wound. "Oh, my wild heart, you must take better care of yourself."
She cradles his wrist, his pulse quickening beneath her fingertips.
"I spoke with Friar Francis."
Her eyes jump to his, incredulous. "You did?"
He offers a wry smile. "I thought I could use some spiritual guidance."
"And — did it help?"
He considers, flexing his hand and smothering a hiss at the sharp sting. "As an amputation might help the wounded soldier."
She frowns as crimson stains the makeshift bandage. "I am surprised you sought the Friar's counsel." Her fingers trace his hand. "I hope it brought some relief."
He has no response. His gaze is drawn to her lips, remembering the night before and how she felt against him.
The silence stretches too long and he snaps back to his senses. "How was your morning?"
She levels him with a shrewd look but tells him what she has been doing. As they walk, the tips of their fingers catch — and hold. At their approach, several dogs bound towards them and John bends to pet the excited animals.
"I do not remember there being this many hounds when I was here last."
"We have acquired a number over the years," Hero replies, snuggling the bundles of fur — and no, no, John is not envious. "They are such dear creatures and the children adore them."
"I had a dog… when I was a child."
Hero looks at him. He realises what he said and stiffens. Her expression sobers — so perhaps he has told her this tale before — but her gaze is encouraging. His defences are still in tatters from his earlier confession, unable to hold back the words which pour from him now…
"I found him, this mangy stray, half-starved and missing an eye, and I took him in. He was mine. This strange, irritable creature, with a bark greater than a runt his size had any right to. An outcast, like me, and the most loyal companion I ever had." He takes a breath, remembering that dog. How much he loved him. How much he had been loved in return. "I — I named him Soldier. We were inseparable, we did everything together. He was my first true friend."
His only true friend.
Hero's hands are warm on his cheeks and he registers the damp trapped between them.
"Let's retire," her voice is gentle, "There is too much pollen out here."
They retreat inside. He does not say anything more about Soldier or his fate. He suspects she knows from the tender way she guides him through the house. When they reach his private study she asks if he would like company.
He hesitates —
Shakes his head. Her eyes flicker but she makes no protest, slipping from the room…
— too late, his hand closes around empty air and he slams his head against the doorpost, groaning. Alone once more.
:-x-:
No rest for the wicked. John lies awake, sick with the sight of his bedroom ceiling, the words of the Friar, stampeding through his mind.
He sees Hero in her wedding gown, limp in her cousin's arms. His mother laid out in bed as he clutches her lifeless hand. Soldier bucks and whines, carried away as he is pinned to the ground. He staggers over the corpses strewn across the blood-soaked battlefield, the smell of rotting flesh suffocates the air and a swarm of black feathers descend...
A whimper, cuts like steel through flesh.
Is cold the same as unfeeling or just the absence of warmth?
The sound comes again. Another trick of the mind. But then again. And there! Again!
He looks at Hero's door, heart beating a bruise as he strains to hear those muffled sobs. But, no. They are not coming from her.
John's thoughts lurch to the children and he scrambles out of bed, throwing on a robe. Many a night, Tonio has woken screaming, spurring his mother to his side (Ursula will then insist she can tend to the toddler herself, that the mistress deserves her rest, and Hero will refuse, unable to leave any of her children in distress). Usually, Tonio's wailing starts Leo off but tonight both are silent as John treads past their door. He creeps on to Clarissa's room, the soft sniffling growing more pronounced.
"Clarissa?"
The sobs cut off. "Papà?"
He pushes the door open, slipping inside. His daughter is tucked in bed, face streaked with tears and that rag-doll, Dogberry, cradled in her arms.
He crouches next to the bed. "Clarissa… what is wrong?"
"I — I had a — a bad dream."
"Oh? Will you… tell me about it?"
"We — um — we were — having a picnic, all of us together — " she hiccups, sniffling, " — I was chasing Leo through the bushes and then he — he um — he disappeared and the trees rose up around me and I was in a woods — and I could — I could hear you laughing — I knew you were at the picnic but I could not find you — and — and the trees were growing bigger and there were all these shadows — and I could — I could hear beasts in the woods — lions and wolves and bears — and I — I was running, calling for you and Mamma — but then I — I was up high in the treetops and I could touch the sky and the tree was swaying and there were wolves circling below — and then and then the branch broke and I was falling — and I woke up."
She shivers, Dogberry crushed under her chin. John places a hand on her shoulder. "It is alright. You are safe. You are here. I am here."
"Papà!" She throws herself against him.
John freezes. Then slowly, he wraps his arm around her. "Sshh, sshh. It is alright, I promise. It was a bad dream. You are safe. You mother and I are here. You are safe."
"What if — what if I get lost?"
"We will find you," he assures, stroking her hair. "We would not rest until we found you."
"What if you are lost too?"
His hand stills and he takes a breath. "I will find my way home to you."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
This seems to satisfy her and she snuggles into his chest. He holds her until her breathing calms. In this quiet hour, time stands still. His heart thumps a warm beat.
"Do you think you can sleep now?" He murmurs, parting from her.
She shuffles deeper under her covers. "Will you sing to me?"
John cringes. "I — do not have a voice for singing.
"You have before. Pleeeaassee?"
He sighs, resolve crumbling, and hums the starting notes of a lullaby. It has been many, many years since he heard this song, yet the tune rises to his lips without effort, the lyrics limping after, faint and muddled, but gaining strength until it is no longer his voice he hears, but the echo of his mother's. As a child, he never realised what a melancholy song this was, but she had sung it to him every night with a smile. He comes to the end, clinging to those final, fleeting notes and his mother's ghost fades back into memory. A drop of warmth slips down his cheek.
Clarissa slumps against her pillows. "Thank you, Papà."
Hiding his alarm at the feelings the song has stirred in him, John stands. "Goodnight, princess. Dream of your kingdom and all the adventures you are yet to have."
He leans down and kisses his daughter's forehead, then turns to the door.
"Wait!" He whirls back. Clarissa thrusts her rag-dog towards him. "You have to wish Dogberry goodnight too."
John frowns at the toy, wondering not for the first time how it came by its name. But it is too late an hour for protest, so he sighs and addresses the stuffed creature, "Goodnight Dogberry."
Satisfied, Clarissa draws the toy back to her chest, eyelids drooping. "Goodnight Papà, sleep well."
John lingers in the doorway; the silver tracks have dried on her cheeks, cherub features relaxing into sleep. He leaves, silent, so as not to disturb her. Eyes adjusting to the dark hall, it takes a moment for his exhausted brain to comprehend who is before him.
Hero leans on the opposite wall, arms tucked behind her back. "Is all well?"
Slowly, he nods. "Just a bad dream."
"Thank you."
"Of course." Midnight curls tumble across pale shoulders; she is clad in a gown of wispy moonlight. His speech comes sluggish. "You should — uhh — you should rest."
She smiles kindly and her hand slides into his own. "We both should."
Warmth pulses where their palms touch, chasing out the cold. His fingers flex and intertwine with hers. She keeps her eyes on him as she leads him down the hall, walking backwards. Outside their respective bedrooms, he pauses. She reaches behind to open her door, eyes beckoning.
His breath catches, his feet turning to stone while his legs shake like the willow. "Hero…"
She tsks. "Do not concern yourself with my virtue now. It is far too late and far too early for such pretences. I mean only to sleep and I will rest better with you beside me — as, I think, will you."
He searches her face for any hesitation but she holds his gaze, her longing bare — as he suspects his own must be. His stomach twists, guilt and desire mixing like water and oil. He steps across the threshold.
Hero floats in the darkness, a spirit guiding him into the beyond. His knees hit the mattress and, like a sailor lured by the siren's song, he crawls after her, onto the bed. Her hand slips from his grasp and seizes his shirt, sinking them both into the sheets.
They lie in parallel, facing one another, the space between them less than an arm's length and as vast as a canyon. Her fingers brave the distance, smoothing along his cheekbone. Her breath flutters his lashes, prickling his beard, and he watches as her lips part around those soft inhales and exhales.
"John…" his name warms his skin "...you have beautiful eyes."
A sound escapes him — a laugh or a whimper. "Hero…"
The universe dissolves around them, gobbled up by the aether, and there they hang, suspended amid the cosmos, and Hero is starlight, luminous, intangible starlight…
…and John is a sinner who has found faith. Never has he known a reverence like this. Why seek absolution from the immaterial when all of Heaven's light is bound in her mortal flesh…
"Hero…" Her name falls like a prayer and he shifts so his lips are but a whisper from her own. "Hero… "
She surges forward and offers him salvation.
