John's dreams are a formless cocoon of warmth and serenity. He wakes to a tickle beneath his nose. Hero is nestled against him, her head nuzzling the crook of his neck, raising goosebumps with her gentle breath. Air rushes into his lungs and expels too quick, ruffling her hair.

She is beautiful.

And he should not be here.

Before he can launch himself upright, Hero's voice sounds against his collarbone. "You are thinking too hard for this hour of the morning. We shall be besieged soon enough. Let us savour the peace a moment longer."

John stills, relishing the sensation of her in his arms — her nightgown rumpled between his fingers, the heat of her skin where the precious lifeblood flows, the feel of a mole beneath his thumb — memorising her, so he can remember later.

"Your hair is like silk," he mumbles, rolling dark strands between his fingers.

Hero tilts her head and his hand sinks deeper into her voluminous curls. His fingers glide through sable tresses, having harboured an inescapable fascination with her curls since he first saw them, the desire to coil one round his finger and tug.

"Mmm, that feels nice."

Heat pools in his belly at her breathy sigh. He combs her hair, transfixed by the sight of her freshly waking.

She releases another sleepy hum and rubs her cheek on his beard. "Good morning, husband."

John's heart stutters. "Good morning… wife."

Her arms clutch at him and she burrows her face in his chest. "I have missed this."

His throat clogs and he is certain any words he could muster would only ruin the moment. So he says nothing and holds her.

Holds her.

And wills the sun never to rise.

:-x-:

"How does one woo a woman, Conrade?"

His companion arches an eyebrow as he holds out a waistcoat. "The woman in question being your wife, sir?"

John snatches the garment from him and thrusts it on. "Who else."

"Be consoled, my lord, for in that, your experience is greater than mine."

John fiddles with his cuffs. "I cannot remember how I accomplished the feat once and I do not trust my luck to hold twice."

"My lord, I assure you, the lady's heart is faithfully yours. You are married."

"I did notice," John drawls. "And given your poor help, it is a wonder you are as well."

Conrade fixes him with a flat look. "If you want advice on how to woo the lady, sir, then perhaps you should speak with your brother. His success precedes yours."

John turns a fierce scowl on him, but it fades as he reflects. He has not inquired after his brother's fate. Though knowing Pedro, it is blessed and bountiful. But is he married? Does he have children? Is John an uncle as well as a father?

He makes a note to consult Hero and spears Conrade with a glare. "If you were less competent in your duties I may take offence."

"You are most magnanimous, sir. Merely, I meant to point out that, unlike a certain count, you required no assistance with your courtship. Thus, my lord, you need not seek it now."

John huffs, repressing a smile. "I hope you polish the silver as well as your tongue."

Conrade bows his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. "It is a good quality to be quick on one's feet. Especially in matters of the heart. In my experience, my lord, dancing does wonders."

John grimaces. Dancing, what occasion has he to dance with Hero? At least it is not sonnets.

:-x-:

Every day, John goes out into the rows to govern and labour, and every day he returns with flowers for Hero, watching the smile split across her face, lovelier than the blooms themselves. She places them in a vase and keeps them at her bedside.

Things are easier between them now, like some great barrier has been surmounted. John knows he was the one who put it there. But Hero has been patient, gentling herself through the cracks in the stone until his walls were overrun with ivy and his defences came crumbling down. Strangely, instead of exposed, he feels lighter.

During meals, their fingers brush beneath the table and entwine, stealing smiles as they join in the conversation. Pouring over papers in the study, Hero leans into John, her breath tickling his neck, and he represses a shudder at the heat of her against him. Instead of sitting on separate sides of the room, John gravitates next to Hero, sharing a lounge chair, reading their respective books and letters, knees pressed together, Hero's head on his shoulder, and soon his lap (John unable to concentrate as the letters blur before him).

At night, after the evening's entertainment has exhausted the children and they are safely tucked in bed, Hero's gaze hooks on his, reeling him in. Their pace is languid as they make their way through the villa; each brush of their bodies like the strike of a match. His eyes do not release hers until the door divides them and then he hurries into his nightclothes, preparing for bed.

A delicate knock on the adjoining door and all the breath leaves his lungs. Hero slips inside, bare feet and tumbling curls, her nightgown modest yet taunting him with the knowledge this thin sheath is all that divides him from her supple flesh. Her eyes hold his, sparks kindling between them, and he draws to her like a moth to flame.

They fall under the covers, folding around each other, the heat of their skin pressing together through their clothes. The embrace is chaste — John not yet comfortable touching Hero like a husband despite her teasing reminder of three children — yet strangely more intimate than any past entanglement. Taking off one's clothes is not as vulnerable as taking off one's armour. Hero's body melds perfectly with his, he almost expects her to sink through marrow and bone, her soul merging with his own, flooding his veins in starlight.

He is delirious, unable to think as her mouth murmurs along his jawbone, her breath upon his lips.

Sometimes they lie there in contented silence, listening to the other's quiet inhales and exhales, chests rising and falling with the pump of their lungs. Sometimes they talk; unspooling the events of the day and matters of the future. Time seems suspended in the dark, their place in the universe as assured as the moon and stars.

Sometimes they speak of the past. Under the cloak of night and Hero's gentle caresses, John unravels like gossamer, sharing things with her he never has with anyone — growing up with his mother and the other women, how her laugh crackled like flame, how she scrubbed the dirt from his cheeks, soothing his scrapes with stories, his favourite: the Cat in the Boots.

"She sounds magnificent," Hero murmurs, combing his hair. "I am sorry not to have known her."

He chuckles, imagining his bold, outrageous mother meeting his mild-mannered wife. "She would have scandalised you. It would have been like the cat meeting the mouse."

He realises too late the comparison is not flattering but Hero's eyes gleam and he remembers mice too have claws.

"Maybe… but I think I would have liked her."

There is an ache in his chest, flickering somewhere between pain and pleasure. He strokes his wife's cheek. "She would have adored you."

Hero smiles and he is a child again, his mother kissing the bruises better. He talks of her illness as he never has before, allowing himself to recall her withered state, umber eyes sunken in her skull, and her frail hand clasped in his own. Hero holds him tight and kisses back the tears.

He tells her of life under his father's rule. How the Prince cared enough for his blood to ensure his education, but did nothing to alleviate the snubs and sneers that besieged the motherless child. Bastard. John was not old enough to read when he first heard the word, but he carried it like it was carved into his skin. Bastard, whore son.

The other children might not have fully understood the words their parents' hissed, but they could scent weakness as sure as rotting flesh. When you are that small and ignorant of the world, you seize power wherever you can, climbing over your peers to be king of the corpses. John might have been a prince's son, but he was also a bastard, and that made them better than him. John was an outcast at best and sport at worst. Neither his father nor his brother intervened. The same boys who shoved him in the dirt and hurled his books into the fountain, flocked to Pedro's side, tripping over themselves to win the favour of Aragon's heir.

Then there had been Soldier — his loyal companion, who saw him being beaten by the older boys and leapt to his defence. It is little consolation that the ringleader bore the scars of Soldier's teeth up until the day John slew him on the battlefield. A mutt cannot savage the son of a count and go unpunished. Maybe if John were legitimate, his father would have been lenient. But he was a bastard. His father's men pinned him to the ground, thrashing and screaming, as Soldier was dragged away for the count to deal with.

What he remembers —

the taste of iron, as his screams ravish his throat…

his father's cold, disdainful glare, the promise of later punishment for causing a scene…

the courtiers' callous faces, whispering amongst each other, their children's silent sniggers…

Pedro frozen in place, for once the boy of motion standing absolutely still…

the guards' bruising hands, forcing him into hard marble…

Soldier's frightened barks and whimpers like daggers in his heart…

…and the silence, thereafter.

Hero cradles him to her, letting him soak her neckline as she soothes her hands through his hair. "I am sorry, I am sorry, oh John, my love, my dear heart, I am sorry."

"This was years ago," he protests as hot tears clot his vision.

"You were too young to suffer all you did. What they did to you was cruel."

Vindication burns through him but it is tempered by shame. He will not mislead her. "I was cruel in turn. Perhaps crueller."

And he had been. Especially after Soldier. He had no conscience for the tricks he pulled or the hurt he inflicted. He was smarter and understood the world better than them. His revenge was far subtler and more effective. They told him bastards were wicked and did not have souls. He showed them how right they were and how wrong they had been to cross him.

Hero cups his face, exorcising those vengeful demons. "John, John, my sweet fiend, you were only a child. The blame lies with the adults who allowed such cruel games. Your father should have protected you and for his failings I think the poorer of him. You are a better man."

He surges upright and the sudden movement has Hero sliding into his lap. He pants against her mouth, tightening his arms around her, fingers tangling in her curls. His heart trembles with the fear she might disappear.

"You are lovely. So lovely. How did you end up with a bastard like me?"

Her laugh tinkles like bluebells. "Serendipity, my beloved bastard."

For once, the word does not land like a lash, but croons from her lips, precious and cherished. He shivers, a thousand little cuts knitting together, and buries his face in her neck.

"Hero… Hero…" He utters her name like a confession. And then, in a wretched whisper, "I hurt you."

"Sshh, I forgive you…" She smoothes her hand down his cheek, her face soft with understanding. "John… please hold me…"

He holds her, trailing kisses along her brow — in them, are the words he dares not speak. Hero sighs, closing her eyes, and melting against him. He thinks she hears them anyway.

:-x-:

"I'll be the knight and you the damsel in distress!" Leo declares, swinging his makeshift sword.

Clarissa scowls. "I don't want to be in distress."

"You have to."

"Why?"

Leo releases a put-upon sigh, "Because, you are a girl."

"So?"

"Sooo girls wear dresses. You have to wear a dress to be in distress."

"That's — that's stupid!"

"Is not!"

"Is too!"

"IS NOT!"

"Children!" Hero sweeps between them before a brawl can break-out. "Do not argue. Leo can be the knight, and Clarissa, you can be the queen who sends him on his quests."

"Yes, I will be queen!"

"But we need a damsel in distress!" Leo protests.

"I can fill that role," Hero assures him. "I am well-practiced in distress."

"We need a villain as well! Papà will you play?"

John crosses to them, a wry glance at Hero. "You want me as your villain?"

Her smile warms him through. "I would have no other."

The game is agreed. Leo gallops back and forth, the dogs scampering around him, fulfilling the various quests Clarissa asks of him, sitting regal on her pretend throne.

"Oh, woe is me!" Hero cries, pressing her hand to her forehead in a mock swoon.

John snorts. "And we ridiculed Antonio's performance."

"Oohhh!" Hero staggers against his chest, almost knocking him over. "Is there no one who can save me from this despicable hypocrite!"

In a flash, John snares her round the waist, hooking an arm under her legs and lifting her off the ground. Hero lets out an inelegant squawk, latching her arms around his neck.

"John!" She squeals as he spins, cackling maniacally.

"No one can save you now, my lovely. I have you in my villainous clutches!"

Hero throws back her head, fighting her laughter. "Ooh, the horror! Is there no BRAVE KNIGHT who can rescue me?"

"I AM A BRAVE KNIGHT!"

Leo charges towards them, sword raised. John eases Hero down and unsheathes his own wooden sword, meeting his son in battle.

"Do not take out his eye!" Hero squeaks.

John throws her a bland look. "Really? I thought an eyepatch would give him some intrigue."

Hero narrows her gaze and John smirks, turning in time to block his son's clumsy strike. They go back-and-forth crossing sticks. At the age of five, his son is no swordsman, and John does not wish to harm the boy, no real force behind his swings. After several minutes of trading blows, John judges them on the brink of a tired Leo throwing a sulk if he does not win soon, and he leaves an opening obvious enough that his son does not miss, jabbing him in the gut.

"Arhkk! I am slain!" John crumples to his knees and keels over. Leo bellows, triumphant.

"My hero," Hero coos and John hears the smack of her lips on their son's forehead met with disgruntled protests.

"The villain is slain," Clarissa decrees. "Now the curse must be broken."

"What curse?" Leo demands.

"The villain's curse. He is not truly evil, but a curse was put on him that made him heartless."

Face down in the grass, John twitches.

"A twist!" Hero delights. "How do we break the curse?"

"True love's kiss, of course."

Of course. John smothers a cough.

"Go on, Mamma."

Fingertips graze his cheek and he is eased on his side. He does not open his eyes, even at Hero's soft inhale. "My sweet villain."

Her lips meet his. No more than a peck, but he feels her love gilding him from the inside.

He stares up at her like a blind man seeing for the first time. "My saving grace."

Hero's face softens, but any response is prevented as their children cheer.

"And they lived happily ever after!" Clarissa proclaims jubilantly. "Now, we must rescue our little brother from the wicked hag Ursula!"

Leo roars his agreement and the children charge across the grass.

"Clarissa! That is unkind!"

"Sorry, Mamma!" The girl shouts.

Hero sighs and turns back to him, helping him to his feet. "They inherited their flair for dramatics from you."

"With your acting skills, I am not surprised."

She shoves his shoulder, then grasps his coat, pulling him close so his mouth is level with hers.

"Wretch."

Her purr tingles through his spine and John — who is beginning to realise he would beg on his knees for a scrap of her affection — is not fool enough to let the moment slip. His mouth collides with hers, a flood of molten gold.

If the children cry foul at their parents' embrace, they go unheeded. Nothing could part John from his wife.

After all, he already has the world.