— fire cracks along his bones, shadows flame across his vision, cornflower skies wither to ash, around him there is shouting, someone screams, the ocean crashes overhead —
…thump…
…thump…
…thump…
— the tide washes out...
Sound like sea and shingle roars in his ears — ebbing into a muted heartbeat. His lashes flutter, remembering how to open, and his gaze focuses on the plaster ceiling above. His bleary eyes rove, tracing the speckled constellations that mark its age.
A soft breath alerts him to another's presence. "You are awake."
He turns — a thousand needles spear his skull — and grunts, gritting his teeth as his vision dissolves in spots of black and indigo. When it refocuses, the pain dulled but not disappeared, he finds himself staring into the face of a girl with hazel eyes and raven locks.
Something pings in the recesses of his mind, dissonant with his throbbing skull.
"Who…" his mouth is a desert, the air scrapes through his lungs, lacerating his throat, and he coughs.
"Here," the girl lifts a cup from the bedside table, water splashing over the rim in her clumsy grasp.
He shifts, meaning to help, but again pain spasms through his skull and the world tilts. Cold presses against his lips, water trickling down his throat and chin. He sighs at the cool relief, not minding that half of it soaks his front.
The girl withdraws the cup. "Do you need more?"
"No…" He shakes his head, grimacing when his vision spots. "...thank you."
At least his voice no longer feels like broken glass. He pushes himself as far up the bed as he can manage, clenching his jaw against the nausea which threatens to overpower him.
The girl watches his struggle. "Do you need another pillow? Should I fetch Mamma?"
He clutches his brow; his head throbs like a whetstone someone has chosen to sharpen their axe on.
"...what… what happened?"
"You fell and hit your head."
That explains it.
He glances around the room, both strange and familiar. "Where… where am I?"
"In bed," the girl chirps, as if he has not deduced that for himself. "You have been sleeping for two days! That is far longer than I am ever allowed. Mamma said not to disturb you. But you are awake now."
He frowns, noticing the window, its shutters open to reveal lavender cloud. He tries to recall where he is and how he came to be here but it is like thrusting his hand into a thornbush to snare a hare. No matter how far he reaches, all he gets is scratches.
His pulse hammers in his throat, skin prickling.
"I left Dogberry with you, so you would not be lonely." The girl indicates a ragtag creature made of cloth, which he had not noticed, nuzzled in his armpit. He supposes it could pass for a dog — or a rabbit. "Mamma has been here a lot — and the doctor — but she had to tend to Leo who is making a fuss because he thinks he killed you."
She rolls her eyes and he does not know what startles him more, the familiarity of the gesture or the fondness it stirs in his chest.
Who are you, he wants to demand. Who is Leo?
"I am not dead," he says instead and maybe there is a flicker of pride in that. Whoever this Leo is, he has not killed him. Don John lives on.
"Of course not! It was just a bump. I told Leo to stop snivelling but he only cried harder and then Mamma shooed me from the room so I came to check on you and it is good that I did because you are awake!"
He reassesses the age of his adversary. "Why does Leo believe he killed me?"
"Leo climbed the big tree, even though he was told not to. Then he got stuck and started wailing so you climbed up to rescue him. Which you did, but then on your way down a branch broke and you fell and you have been sleeping ever since."
He brushes his head, feeling the proof in the coarse bandages. He remembers none of this, mind aswirl with murky waters. Why would he help a stranger?
"They carried you back to the house and the doctor came and did those. Mamma said you needed rest, but I told her if she gave you true love's kiss you would wake! I guess it is slow working. But you are awake now, so you can play Princess Court with me like you promised."
She smiles at him, beseeching. John's brain is slow processing this bludgeon of information. His stomach jolts as her words click together — true love's kiss?!
He shifts forward, grimacing through the pricks of pain. "Who is your mother?"
Her face wrinkles with confusion. Before she can answer there comes a wearied sigh from the doorway, "Clarissa, I told you not to go in here."
It is that name more than the voice, which freezes him. It has been years — a lifetime — since he heard it spoken, plucking a sharp chord on his heartstrings.
"But LOOK! He's awake!"
The figure stiffens, eyes flying to him. "John?"
Her voice quivers, another pang in his chest. The candles have not been lit; he sees her only through the fading glow of the sunset. And yet, he knows her — like a lightning strike, scorching him from the inside out.
A killer should know their victim.
"Hero," the name falls like lead from his tongue.
She staggers forward. "Clarissa, find Ursula. Have her summon the doctor."
"But I want to staaayyy."
Not taking her eyes off John, Hero's voice strengthens with command, though there lingers a note of exhaustion. "Please, Clarissa."
The girl huffs.
"We'll play later," she assures him and scurries from the room.
Hero's shoulders slump and she tucks behind her ear a stray curl that has escaped her bun. He has never seen her with her hair up; it matures her, though still lovely.
"How do you feel?" She floats towards him, white skirts fluttering. He does not know what face he makes but the phantom falters. "John?"
No one says his name like that — warm and precious and familiar.
"Is this Hell?"
She turns to marble. "Why — why would you ask that?"
"Because… I killed you."
She sucks in a breath and rushes to his bedside. "Oh, my love. You have been dreaming."
She reaches out with milk fingers — he flinches — their warmth feathers across his cheek. Her voice a gentle mantra, "I am here, I promise. I am alive and we have a life together. Remember, John, the Friar's trick."
He remembers —
— fleeing to the port, feet light with the success of his scheme. Then, iron chains clamped upon him, flanked by Don Pedro's men, and — No! He would not go back! NO! Not back under his brother's thumb! — but then they told him of the lady's death and the fight rotted inside him. They hauled a shell back to the villa to witness the count's farce of a wedding, to the same blood he carelessly spilt — they spilt. But this proved another trick and the resurrected Hero stood before them, rose dusting her cheeks as she pardoned Claudio and proclaimed her maidenhood to the world. And then, his brother's grave stare falling on him. Benedick's promise of brave punishments —
Is this one of them? Is Hero to be his undoing as he was hers?
Now he understands why the room is familiar, it is the same build as the chambers given to them at Leonato's home. Are Pedro and Benedick lurking outside the door, sniggering at his expense? Is Claudio?
He snarls, baring his teeth, "Where is he?"
Hero's hand withdraws. "Who? The doctor?"
"Claudio. Your husband."
"My — my husband? Is this — a jest?" Her gaze snags on his bandaged head and she blanches. "John, what is the last thing you remember?"
His heart thunders in his ears. "Whatever game you are playing—"
"Claudio is not here, and he is not my husband, but you have cracked your skull so I need you to tell me what is the last thing you remember?"
The swan is graceful but its bite is fierce. The force of her words surprise him and he answers, "The wedding."
The sheets bunch in her fists. "Which wedding?"
"Your wedding. To Claudio. The second one."
"My—" She reels back, face stricken. "John — there was no second wedding. I mean — there was but — but that was a ruse — I never — I never married Claudio, and besides, that was—"
She cuts off, trembling. His gaze narrows, a tremor passing through his hands.
"That was what?" Her knuckles have gone as white as her face. Alarms seizes him. "Hero? What is it? Hero."
She shudders, choking on a sob, "That was — that was — ten years ago."
He stills. "Get out."
"John—"
"Get. Out." His voice hisses like the swing of a knife and he lurches upright, dark vines writhing at the corners of his vision. "For your sake."
He has never struck a woman, but this jest of Claudio's, of Pedro's —
He does not trust himself.
Hero regards him, her face softening. "You would never hurt me, John."
She sounds so sure, so trusting. His blood boils, skin melting to bone. It feels as if his skull might erupt. "I killed you, Hero."
Sadness sweeps across her countenance, her fingers extending towards him once again. He recoils and her hands curl at her sides. "Oh John… you brought me back to life."
As she speaks she tilts her chin, almost defiant. He grinds his jaw, scouring her face for the lie but can find none. She is as guileless as ever. Yet none of this can be true. Ten years cannot have passed.
He squeezes his eyes shut. "This cannot be, this cannot be. Be it a trick or I am dreaming — or even dead. But this cannot be true."
When he opens his eyes Hero is still there, watching him, a pensive expression clouding her fine features.
"The Cat in the Boots — it was your favourite tale as a child. You would plead with your mother over and over to tell it again and each time she would embellish it with some new feat of cleverness. You adored it. The belief that with enough cunning — and a dash of ruthlessness — one could change their fate."
Her words wash over him like seasalt through the cracks in his armour. She speaks true, but — the memories of his mother, those precious few moments of happiness in his childhood, he guards like a dragon does its hoard. He has never shared them with anyone, will not sharpen other's swords for them.
"All you have done is prove this some mad dream."
Her mouth curves, a faint twinkle in her eyes. "You dream of me, John?"
His brain heats. He must be delirious, the lady he knew was as delicate and demure as a white rose. This woman bursts with the vivid technicolour of a field of wildflowers.
Or is he forgetting that roses have thorns?
Before he can scramble a response the door opens and in walks a man in a suit and glasses. "Ah, I see the patient is awake."
Hero whirls to him. "Please, Doctor. He talks as if the last ten years never happened."
The doctor stops short, brow crinkling. "I see… well… some disorientation is not unusual with these sorts of injuries. If I may, I would like to speak with — and, uh — examine the patient myself."
"Of course," Hero acquiesces before John can protest. She looks at him, her face softening. "The doctor will help you. I shall request some food be brought up. You must be hungry."
John wants to object — if only for the sake of objecting — but the mention of food has his traitor stomach rumbling. He scowls, sullen and silent, and watches as Hero sweeps from the room, resisting the inexplicable urge to call her back.
"Your wife is very charming," the doctor declares in jovial tones.
John's head whips to him. "My what?"
:-x-:
Hero shuts the door, clenching the handle tight so her hand does not shake, the brass pattern indenting into her palm. She heaves a breath, righting herself, and, one-by-one, pries her fingers from the handle.
She walks the familiar path of the corridor. Around her, the walls stretch and fold, the floorboards threatening to fall out from under her. She hears voices from Clarissa's room and stumbles against the open door, peeking inside. Her daughter bounces on the bed while Ursula urges her to calm.
"Please, princess—"
"I DON'T WANT TO GO TO BED! I WANT TO SEE PAPÀ!"
"Clarissa, sssshhh!" Hero enters the room, a finger pressed to her lips. "Your brothers are sleeping."
Clarissa's knees hit the mattress. "Mamma! Can I see Papà now?"
She shakes her head. "Papà is very tired."
"But he's been asleep for two whole daayyysss!"
Ignoring her daughter's pout, Hero turns to the serving woman. "Ursula, please instruct the kitchen to prepare some food and bring it to the lord's bedroom."
Ursula nods and slips from the room. Hero faces her daughter who is sitting with her arms crossed. "I want to see Papà."
"Not tonight, darling. The sun has gone to bed and so must you."
"But—"
"Ah, ah," Hero waggles a finger and taps her daughter's nose. "The sooner you sleep, the sooner morning comes and you can see your papà."
Not that she is sure John will be up to receiving visitors tomorrow. But she cannot think on that now.
Clarissa sighs as if it is a great burden, "Fiiinnneee. But I want a story first."
Hero laughs, her daughter ever the opportunist. She settles in the chair beside the bed. "Of course, princess. What sort of story would you like?"
"Puss'n'Boots!" Clarissa exclaims, previous peevishness vanishing at the prospect of her favourite bedtime tale.
Hero's smile falters and she sucks in a breath, steadying her voice. "As you wish. Once upon a time there was a poor, old miller who had three sons…"