Chapter Two:

The Only One

It would have been wrong to call Beatrice beautiful. Not that complementing her in this way would have been an exaggeration, in fact, it seemed to Don Jon as he approached her that the opposite was true. The young woman was clad in a simple white dress. She rested as gracefully as a swan on the wide brim of the crumbling stone fountain that marked the center of the courtyard. While the verdant hedges and decaying stonework that surrounded her slowly melted into the afternoon shadows, she continued to shine, almost seeming to generate the patch of sunlight in which she sat. Her thick hair cascaded past her shoulders in thick waves of gold, ending in a great confusion of ringlets halfway down her back. She was not beautiful, she was beauty, what every angel aspired to be.

The young woman had not yet noticed him. Her expression was unguarded, yet unreadable, her big green eyes fixed on something unknown to her observer, something only she could see. Don Jon remained still for a moment longer, watching her absently trace the edge of a paving stone with a bare toe before he spoke.

"Beatrice" he said with a smile " I see you are enjoying the beauty of this courtyard, as usual"

"I am not here for the beauty, though it is nice. I am here for some peace and quiet, to tell the truth" she sighed. "It's my father again, the way he keeps finding these awful men to be my suitors, as if I would ever want to throw my life away at such a young age! I am waiting for the right man"

"Is that so? Tell me more"

"About my father?"

"About your problems in general" Don Jon stepped forward and took a seat on the fountain next to her, trying his best not to stumble on an uneven paving stone or do anything else stupid. Settled comfortably beside her, he continued. "You know how I enjoy hearing your rants"

Beatrice laughed, more out of confidence than mirth. "As I enjoy giving them, John." she smiled "Now, where was I? Oh, yes, that unsavory father of mine, always trying to auction me off to the highest bidder! As if I was some sort of servant! The poor fool means well, but even so he has no right to treat me like some commodity to be bought and sold at will! And neither do those men for that matter! They are so insufferably rude!"

"Beatrice, every man is like that in some way, some of us are just better at hiding it."

Don Jon was shocked to see his companion laugh, a clear, beautiful laugh, free of anything like sarcasm, or malice. It seemed to be born of genuine amusement.

"Beatrice?"

She didn't respond, but kept laughing, doubled over now so that her face was lost in an avalanche of blond hair.

"Beatrice, what is it? What's so funny?"

"It-its just" she muttered between fits of giggles "So you are not a man then?"

"What?" he stared at her in utter confusion as he waited for her explanation.

"You said it yourself, just now. Every man is like that, some are just better at hiding it'"

"So?"

"So? John, you are most certainly not like that, you are a genuinely nice person"

For a moment, Don Jon was stunned into silence, the idea that Beatrice thought he was a genuinely nice person was almost to much. All his life, he had been scorned, and ignored. This was by far the kindest thing anyone had said to him in a long, long time. He was still a little stunned when he spoke "Th-thank you Beatrice, that means a lot to me" Especially coming from you.

"It is true, you are a genuinely nice person, and therefore, you must not be a man" she giggled victoriously.

"Of course." he sighed "There is just no beating you is there?"

"Never."

"I guess, thats just the way you are. A swan will always be a swa`n, not a hawk, not a coystrill, but a swan, there is no changing it." Don Jon replied, letting himself join in her laughter.

"I am going to miss you, you know" Beatrice muttered. Her laughter had departed as quickly as it came, leaving her voice serious, with a hint of something like...regret?

"I'll miss you to, um, Beatrice" Tell her! Tell her now! This is the perfect moment, you leave for the army in seven days, dammit! It doesn't matter if the sonnet is not yet finished, the moment is perfect, here by the fountain. Is this not what you want her to remember most about you, moments like this one? Tell her...

"Um...Beatrice?" That you...

"Yes?"

...Love her. "Huh? Oh, um...it was nothing, I forgot what I was going to say" Failure, now and forever, a coward.

"Oh, alright then..." She inclined her head toward the smoldering afternoon sun hanging just above the tall hedges that surrounded the fountain, sealing it off from the rest of the world. "I think I would like to go for a swim" she said with such suddenness that Don Jon had no idea what to make of the remark.

"What? What do you mean?"

Beatrice grinned "You'll see soon enough" and with that, she simply let herself fall backwards, her skirt flaring beautifully like a pair of wings as she slipped gracefully into the deceptively deep blue waters of the fountain, where her secret admirer dared not follow her.

"To hell with secrecy." Don Jon whispered the words aloud to himself. They slid from his lips with unexpected ease for something he had been thinking, and wishing to speak for so long. "To hell with secrecy." He repeated, louder this time as he gently shut his study door, and once more as the heavy bolt slid into place "To hell with secrecy". The young man was alone in his study now, alone with his feelings and thoughts, his ambitions and his fears.

A few quick, purposeful steps took him to his desk, littered with countless writings, sonnets and soliloquies, written honestly without a trace of truth. Even here, in his inner sanctum, in his secret writings, Don Jon had neglected to include even the barest, most cryptic hint of an actual secret. Without exception, his poems contained only what could be used to flesh out the facade that he had grown all to accustomed to. These bland writings only added to his invisibility, to such an extent that they may as well have been written with water in place of ink for all the good they did him.

"To hell with secrecy. It doesn't mater anymore!" With that cry he swept his arm across the desk, sweeping each of the useless papers into the air where they swooped and spun beautifully for a moment before coming crashing down to the stone floor. Such things as these belonged nowhere else.

For a moment, the young man stood there, staring blankly at the empty surface of the desk. Watching it gleaming darkly in the candle light, he was filled with an inexplicable since of freedom and confidence. He sat down, and pulled quill, ink, and a fresh sheet of paper from various drawers. Then, he took a deep breath, brushed his hair away from his eyes, and began to write.

In six days was the much anticipated going away party for Pedro and himself, and the day after that he was scheduled to leave. This meant that he had to do it soon, there was no other way. He would spend the next few days writing the perfect sonnet for Beatrice, and at the party, he would present it to her. Everything would work, the sonnet had to be perfect, it had to. This time he silently swore to himself I will be completely honest. I am really going to tell you Beatrice, that I love you.