"You are not travelling to Padua!" Her father exclaims.
"I must! I am." Hero argues back. "There is no time to lose."
"It is winter, the weather conditions are too poor. You must wait until spring."
"I cannot wait! I have to leave today. I need to reach him!"
She presses her fingers to her collar where the oleanders are visible to all. She doesn't know what caused them but she knows Don John is badly hurt. She cannot wait for news from Beatrice, she must go to him now. (Before it is too late).
Her father scowls. "You will not risk yourself to see that villain."
"He is my soulma—!"
"He ruined you! I do not care if he is injured or dying. It is his punishment for the pain he has caused you!"
"I care!" Hero shouts and her father steps back at the volume of her voice, "I care! And I will go to him."
He shakes his head. "Not alone you shall not and I will not be gallivanting across Italy in the cold and rain."
"Ursula shall accompany me and we will join Beatrice and Benedick in Padua."
"No, it is too dangerous, I forbid it!"
"Father—"
"I will go with her."
Father and daughter freeze. They both turn to Antonio with respective looks of shock and hope.
He meets their stares with resolve. "I will make sure she reaches Padua safely."
"Antonio, no," Leonato protests as Hero flies to her uncle, wrapping her arms around him.
"Oh thank you, uncle!"
"You cannot seriously be indulging this absurd plan!" Her father scolds his brother. "Journeying to Northern Italy in winter is one thing, but to see him, who has done her nothing but wrong—"
"I forgive him, father," Hero says, surprising him into silence. "I don't expect you to understand, but I forgive him and I need to go to him now. I need to make sure he knows."
"Forgive him!" Her father squawks. "After what he did!"
"You would have had me marry Claudio after how he abused me."
Leonato has enough grace to look chastened, even as he argues back, "That is different. Claudio was tricked, by the same man you now run to!"
"I know what he did…" she replies, her voice steady even as her heart is racing to Padua, "...and I forgive him."
"I trust her, Leo," Antonio says, "You should as well."
Her father shakes his head, clutching the wall like he might bowl over and she feels a twinge of guilt. "Your abrupt departure will raise eyebrows. There will be talk."
Hero is no stranger to talk. "Then you shall have to lie convincingly. I know you are capable of it."
Her father frowns, muttering words she cannot hear. Then, he straightens, addressing them. "I think this is a foolish, reckless endeavour… but I see you will not be dissuaded. I will tell the staff to prepare provisions for your trip."
Hero beams. "Thank you, father. I will pack at once."Her nightgown swishes as she hurries away, hurtling up the stairs before her father can change his mind. "A trunk! A trunk! I need a trunk!"
She flits around her room, tossing out her winter clothes to be packed. It takes some effort on Ursula's part to wrangle her into her dress, she is so distracted. Antonio provides her with a small trunk suitable for travel and Ursula and her spend an hour packing and unpacking it. Hero hesitates over her collection of letters and pressed flowers, before selecting one to bring her comfort on the trip.
She pulls on her gloves and hastens out of the house, drawing her thick, winter cloak around her. Antonio has secured their passage on a ship departing for Salerno this afternoon and their bags are being loaded onto the carriage. Her father has put it about that Beatrice is ill and Hero is flying to her beloved cousin's side to nurse her back to health.
He meets her before the carriage, trepidations clear in his worn features and Hero is prepared to argue again if he bids her stay. But he must read the determination in her face because his shoulders sag and he sighs. "Please be safe. It would kill me to lose you."
Hero softens and she clasps his hands. "I will be, I promise, and I have Antonio looking out for me."
"Keep him safe too."
Hero smiles. "We will write to you to let you know we have reached Padua safely."
Her father folds her in his arms, hugging her tight, and Hero buries her face in his shoulder. For the first time in a long-time, she feels hope that things between them are not irreparable. They may never be what they once were, but then Hero is no longer the girl she used to be.
They pull apart and Leonato gives her a sad look like he recognises this himself. He gives her shoulder one last squeeze. "I hope he is deserving of your loyalty, daughter."
"Right!" Antonio booms before Hero has a chance to respond. "Shall we get on!"
"Farewell, father." Hero slips out of his touch. "Expect a letter from us soon,"
She strides from his side, accepting Antonio's proffered hand as he escorts her into the carriage.
"Keep yourself out of trouble!" Antonio calls to his brother as he climbs up next to the driver and then the carriage starts to roll, the horses trotting forwards.
Hero waves to her father, her heart clenched in her throat as she watches his anxious face grow farther from her. Despite her show of confidence, she is afraid. She has never been outside of Sicily and this journey she is embarking on frightens her. However, she clutches Don John's letter in her hands. The thought that she could lose him — without her even seeing him, without him knowing how she feels — frightens her more.
She looks away from her home and turns her gaze to sea.
:-x-:
Hero is relieved when they reach Salerno's shores. She is not accustomed to long sea journeys and the crossing had not been easy. Rough waves and high winds had rocked the ship as the rain beat down on them. They huddled in their little cabin, cramped but better than what the crew had. It was just as well Ursula had not joined them for the trip, there would have been no room.
As her stomach roiled with the waves and the blood drained from her face, her uncle kept her distracted with fanciful tales of a magical island ruled by a vengeful sorcerer and the cross-dressing adventures of ship-wrecked twins. She could not be more grateful that he joined her on this journey.
Though Hero is much happier to be on land, without fear of drowning, the journey from Salerno is no smoother. Rain, frost, and fog assail them. The roads become muddied and flooded, slowing their progress. They travel in crowded coaches and stay in inns, settling for poorer conditions than they can afford, not wanting to flash their coins around and attract the wrong attention. The threat of brigands and bandits keeps them on edge, though Antonio's size proves a good deterrent and they make it to the north unharassed.
Under different circumstances, Hero might have enjoyed the passing scenery, even with the cold and dismal weather. This is her first time in mainland Italy. But she cannot relax, her heart pounding like the horses' hooves, urging them to go faster. It is only due to her uncle's age that she concedes to stopping at inns instead of travelling through the night. Even then she barely sleeps, shivering in cold sweat that she may wake to barren skin. She spends each minute of the day anxious to check if the flowers are still there, hidden from strangers' sights, and then in the evening she dreads undressing.
She reads Don John's letter, comforting herself with the familiar shape and sound of his words. She touches the oleanders — whose raw pink and bloodied petals fan like flames across her flesh — and aches for his suffering, wills him to be safe. God preserve him, I am coming. She bites down on her left wrist as she used to do, leaving teeth marks in her skin. Please, Don John, I am coming.
:-x-:
"Weather permitting, we will reach Padua tomorrow," her uncle assures her. "I have sent a messenger to our cousins, letting them know to prepare for our arrival."
Hero is silent, hugging the blanket around her. She will reach Padua tomorrow, through wind, hail, and snow. Nothing will keep her from Don John's side.
"You will see him tomorrow," Antonio promises, as if reading her thoughts.
She lifts her startled gaze to his and he smiles. Nodding his head at the letter, sticking out from under her pillow.
"It is his letters that have brought back your smile these last months."
Hero's fingers close instinctively around the letter, before they loosen and she blinks at her uncle. "How did you…?"
His expression is gentle and knowing. "There is a softness to your eyes, a glow of excitement in your cheeks, which does not appear for Beatrice's letters. I have noticed you gazing at the flowers on your skin. He is your soulmate, I understand."
"You… do?
Her uncle nods and moves to sit with her on the bed. "I do." He untucks his shirt, revealing the jagged arc of a primrose across the side of his protruding stomach. "He is a part of you. No matter what lies between you."
Hero's eyes widen. She has glimpsed the odd flower grazing her uncle's skin, but they have never spoken about them. She assumed he was like most soul-bound people and never found his soulmate. "Do you… know your soulmate?"
"He was a friend."
Hero's mouth is dry. She weighs each of these words as she wets her lips — he, was, a friend. "What… what was he like?"
Antonio smiles. "He was an adventurer and a poet. He had a perchance for getting into trouble, the same as yours."
Her fingers stroke the flowers on her wrist. "What… happened to him?"
Antonio shrugs. "He is well. He is married, with a family."
"Do you… ever see him?"
"No," his smile never wavers, but it softens, "Our paths diverged long ago."
Questions swell in Hero's throat but she swallows them back down, to prick like fleas in her stomach. She doesn't want to press on old wounds nor damage this fragile thing that Antonio has trusted her with.
Still, she cannot stop from asking, "Do you wish things had been different?"
Antonio sighs and stares at his hands, quiet for a long moment. "I wish I had been more honest." His fingers curl into his palms and then he smiles at her. "But I am happy with how my life turned out." He reaches out and rests his hands over hers. "I have been able to watch you grow-up."
Hero inhales, her heart squeezing. She doesn't know what to say so she throws her arms around him, burrowing her face in his shoulder. He wraps an arm around her, hugging her back.
"I promise, we're going to get you to him tomorrow," he murmurs into her head. "And then… we will figure everything else out."
Hero swallows, releasing a high-pitched hiccup and holds him tight. "Thank you."
:-x-:
Hero dreams she is a little girl again, no older than the fingers on her hand, running to show her mother the beautiful flowers that have appeared on her arm.
"Mamma! Mamma! Look!" She shrieked her excitement, delighted by the pretty colours.
Her mother smiled and cooed and told her how special she was, that this was a blessing from the Lord. She said nothing about soulmates and it was a couple more years before Hero heard the word and understood what the flowers meant.
"When I meet my soulmate," she hears herself say as the dream blurs, "I'll take care of him, so he is never hurt again."
:-x-:
"A carriage has arrived for you," the innkeeper informs them as they are finishing their breakfast. "It's… uh… has the crest of Padua on it."
He looks over their modest, travel-worn clothes as if trying to puzzle out what connection they could have with the noble Count of Padua.
Hero leaps from her chair as the inn door opens. "Beatrice!"
The newcomer pulls off their hat and scarf. "I'm afraid I am a disappointment," Benedick says. "My devoted wife wanted to come as soon as we received your message but I persuaded her to let me fetch you instead."
"There is no disappointment," Hero smiles, approaching him. "You are a welcome sight."
Benedick grins, scooping her into an embrace. "Cousin! You are a pleasant surprise!"
"I commend you, sir. It takes great fortitude to deter Beatrice," Antonio teases.
"Sir," Benedick pantomimes exhaustion, "I persuaded her to marry me. This was a trifle.
"Uh… can I… can I get anything for your lordship?" The innkeeper croaks, watching their exchange with open curiosity.
Benedick turns his charming smile on the man, "Thank you, good sir. If my dear friends' belongings can be brought down from their room and loaded into my carriage outside I would be much obliged."
"Right away, my lord." The innkeeper scurries off, calling to one of the serving lads.
Benedick motions for Hero and Antonio to sit back down and draws up a chair. "While we wait for the horses to be changed, tell me how was your journey? When did you set-off? The letter we sent could have only reached Messina a day ago."
"We have been travelling for four days," Antonio replies.
Benedick's gaze flicks to Hero, river-blue eyes speculative before he relaxes back in his chair. "You must be exhausted. Be assured, our servants are preparing the best rooms for your stay."
"Thank you. We know we were not expected."
Benedick waves a hand. "Of course, you are family. You are welcome any time. Besides, you accommodated a whole legion of soldiers on less notice back in the summer."
"How is Don John?" Hero asks, unable to restrain herself any longer. She tugs on her sleeve; a few scarlet petals peek from underneath. "I… um… what has happened to him?"
Benedick sits forward, all mirth draining from him and Hero's heart plunges as his expression turns grave. "There was a fire in the stables. Don John ran to save the horses and… was burned in the process."
Hero suspected something like this but she still gasps, vision rippling as her worst fears are confirmed.
"We summoned a doctor at once and he has received the best care," Benedick is quick to reassure her. "He hasn't succumbed to infection or fever which the doctor believes is promising…"
He trails off. Hero realises she is trembling, her arms wrapped around herself, Antonio's hand on her back. Her eyes itch and she smells the salt as her tears slide free.
She sniffs and seizes Benedick's hand. "Please, Benedick. Please take me to him."
He looks a little out of his depth but nods kindly. "Dear cousin, at once."
They load their few belongings into the carriage, fitted with a fresh team of horses, and set-off. Benedick and Antonio attempt to keep the conversation light and flowing but it is evident Hero's mind is elsewhere. She keeps seeing the flames, Don John rushing into danger. She imagines his pain, the oleanders blistering along her flesh as if their poison were sinking into her veins.
It takes the better part of a day to reach Padua and rains the whole way. It is dark when they arrive at the estate, but even if the sun were shining, Hero couldn't have appreciated its grandeur, her thoughts full of Don John. Benedick is quick to escort her from the carriage, nodding to the servants who rush to unload their luggage as he leads her into the house.
Beatrice materialises before them, flying at Hero and sweeping her into her arms. "Oh Hero! Dear Hero! How happy I am to see you!"
Now that she is here at long last, the fatigue of the journey and the fear that has dogged her these last five days take their toil and Hero crumples into her cousin.
"Beatrice," she clings to her.
"It is alright, pet," Beatrice hugs her tight. "As delighted as I am to have you here, I know you have not journeyed all this way in the treacherous winter for me alone. I will take you to him."
Hero holds onto Beatrice as she steers her through the manor house, knees quaking as if they could give out any moment. Beatrice keeps her steady and never lets her go.
"We placed him in the guest quarters, not far from our own chambers."
Hero is barely aware of her surroundings until they stop before a door. Beatrice raps on it gently. A pause, then the door opens to reveal the face of a young man.
"He is sleeping, my lady. He has not woken since your last visit."
"Thank you, Nicholas," Beatrice smiles. "We would like to come in, please."
"Of course, my lady."
The serving man steps aside, holding the door open for them. As she enters, Hero is struck with the pungent smell of ointment. There is a single candle illuminating the room and Nicholas goes to light another. Hero's gaze locks on the figure on the bed, her breath catching as Don John's face is revealed to her for the first time in six months. His eyes are closed in slumber, the beard that shades his jaw is thicker than she remembers and his ink locks, which spill across the pillow, appear a few inches longer.
She doesn't feel herself move but the distance between them disappears and she collapses in the chair beside his bed. She does not hear Beatrice bid Nicholas leave, attention fixed on the bandages that wind around Don John's right arm under a loose shirt. A strangled gasp escapes her.
"Oh, Don John," she clasps his left hand.
He doesn't stir, lips parting as he breathes.
"It is unlikely he will wake tonight. The doctor gave him a tonic to help him sleep," Beatrice explains, approaching her side. "It is better that he rests and heals than suffers awake."
Hero threads her fingers through his own, stifling a sob as her heart pulls taut in her throat. She has travelled so far to reach him and now he is here, alive, but scarred. Her eyes sting with tears.
"We placed you in the chamber next door," Beatrice informs.
Hero would hug her cousin if it didn't mean letting go of Don John. "Thank you."
Beatrice nods. She always understands, even without Hero having to explain herself.
"May I sit here a while… alone?"
Beatrice's fingers brush across her shoulder, where the oleanders sprout from under her collar. "I will inform you when supper is being served."
Hero thanks her again and waits for her sister-cousin to leave before reaching out with tender touch and combing back the dark strands from Don John's face.
"Don John… it is Hero… I am here now… Don't you dare leave me." She leans down and kisses his brow. "My brave fighter."
:-x-:
Waking is a slow torture; sleep unpeels its tar-thick tendrils and his senses come alive, body aching as if he were burning again. He forces his eyes open to confirm there are no flames and cringes against the flood of daylight.
A gasp. He blinks against the dark spots which swarm his vision and looks in the direction of the sound. He stills at the sight, realising he is not as awake as he believed.
"Hero…"
She smiles, a delicate, shivering thing. "Don John."
He looks down and sees her hand is holding his. Suddenly he forgets his burns, focus narrowed to her touch. She is far more solid than in his other dreams, this time he can feel the warmth of her skin.
His fingers curl around hers, holding on tight. "Stay."
"I promise," her smile lights her face and he is struck by what he didn't appreciate the first time he saw her, that she is beautiful.
In a trance, he reaches with his other hand to touch her face — and cries out as pain flares through his arm. He drops it onto the bed, hissing.
"Don John!" Hero releases him. "What can I do? How can I help? Should I call for someone?"
He clenches his teeth against the pain, too real for dreaming. But if this isn't a dream…
He gasps, mastering himself through the sensation of burning. "H-He-Hero?" Hazel-green eyes gaze at him, wide with concern, and his pulse thunders. "Is this…? Am I…? Are you…? You cannot be… here?"
"But I am," she leans forwards, fingers brushing the back of his hand, sparks skitter up his arm. "I travelled from Messina to be here."
"Why — Why would you do that?"
"Why?" She gives him a disbelieving look, then unties her sleeve, pushing it to her elbow. "I saw you were injured. I had to come, I had to… see you."
He stares at the pink and red petals that engulf her arm, a part of him still shocked to see the proof of their bond. "Ah…" He fights to keep his expression neutral as he realises she is truly here — while he is in bed, his hair a mess and his beard untrimmed. At least he doesn't smell of vomit this time — just sweat and ointment. "Come to see my suffering for yourself?"
She falters, looking struck, and shame bitters his tongue. "No. No, I came because — because I was worried for you. Don John… you cannot believe I would take any satisfaction in your suffering?"
He looks away from her hurt expression, down at his bandaged arm. His fingers curl into a fist despite the throbbing the action causes. "...You would not."
"Don John…" Her voice is soft and pitying
He preferred when there was parchment and ink and a whole country between them. He hates that she is seeing him like this. But — his gaze lands on the wreath of blue forget-me-nots that adorn his left forearm, always appearing as a comfort in his worst times — she came for him. She travelled all the way from Messina to Padua in bleak winter for him.
He turns back to her, his voice and expression controlled. "When did you arrive?"
"Last night."
Don John thinks back… the fire is still a blazing inferno in his mind; when he wakes it is to pain and when he is asleep the flames have him again. Time is a smoke cloud in his head. How long has it been — days, weeks, a month?
"I set-off the same day as the oleanders appeared. I came as fast as I could," she explains like she has something to justify when Don John can't understand why she would bother in the first place.
"You did not travel alone?" He checks, pulse quickening as he imagines her attempting the perilous journey alone, bandits and devils lurking around every bend.
"No, my Uncle Antonio accompanied me."
He exhales, leaning back into the pillows, gaze fixing on the wooden canopy above him. "How long… do you plan to stay?"
"Until my gracious cousins are sick of my face and turn me out."
He looks at her. "That will never happen."
She smiles, eyes crinkling at their corners. "Then, my lord, I hope you do not grow sick of me."
Never, Never, his heart beats.
"That depends… how good are you at cards?"
:-x-:
Hero is here. Hero is here.
Don John cannot understand it. He keeps wondering if he has dreamed her up, if his burns have become infected and she is the result of a fevered mind. She cannot really be sitting across from him. Can she?
She has consumed his thoughts these last months, her words a tattoo on his brain. But now she is more than ink and parchment. She is here and she is flesh and he could touch her if he dared. He doesn't. But her fingers brush against his as she sits at his bedside.
She comes to his room, bringing with her books to entertain him and packs of cards. The hours pass unnoticed over games of Scopa and Trisette. It is odd conversing with each other directly instead of through letters, their responses immediate instead of having to wait weeks. At first their conversation is riddled with false starts and awkward pauses, neither of them naturally verbose. However, soon they fall into a comfortable rhythm and Don John feels relaxed talking with Hero, words no longer such a struggle. He smiles as he listens to her and is freer with his own thoughts; his pulse leaping when something he says makes her laugh. He encourages her to practise her Spanish and is unsurprised when even her mistakes sound beautiful.
When she is there, he is unconscious of the sun passing outside, nor the shadows gathering in the room. But he never forgets his condition. The pain is always there; sometimes nothing more than a dull irritation and sometimes it is as if salt is being ground directly into his wounds. He grits his teeth and tries to hide his discomfort but Hero notices. He hates that shine of pity in her eyes, hates that she sees him like this, weak and crippled, stuck in bed, struggling to use his right arm.
During the doctor's visits, as well as having his wounds checked and bandages applied, he is allowed to exercise now he has recovered more of his strength. With support from the doctor and Nicholas, Don John manages short walks around the room and farther out into the hall. It is pathetic and he debases himself asking Benedick to ensure Hero remains distracted with Beatrice during these occasions. (The other man is surprisingly obliging in this request and Don John wonders if the count and countess are concerned over how much time their cousin is spending unchaperoned in his room. But as far as he knows they have made no attempts to intervene.)
The doctor warns him not to over-exert himself. Still Don John pushes his body to recover through the pain and fatigue. The first-time he makes it to the library unaided, he feels a surge of vindication. However, his satisfaction is short-lived when he encounters Antonio amongst the bookshelves.
"Are you well?" The older man asks, peering at him — and whatever Don John was expecting, it was not concern. "You look white and you are sweating. Here, have a seat."
"N-No," Don John gasps, attempting to appear as if he were not sagging against a bookshelf. "I — I am f-fine."
Antonio's expression is difficult to place but it is not unkind. "Consider, while you value pride above your health, how it will be if I have to carry you back to your room after you have fainted."
Don John grimaces and slumps into the sofa. Antonio takes the chair opposite him, smiling.
"I am glad to see you are recovering."
"You are?" Don John squints at him; his vision has stopped swimming now he is sitting down.
"Yes, though you would not wish to undo that progress by pushing yourself too hard."
Don John frowns down at his hands.
"I know it would distress my niece if you were to suffer a relapse."
Don John's gaze snaps back to Antonio. The other man's smile is knowing and Don John's palms heat. Silence beats between them.
Finally, Antonio claps his hands on his knees sporting a guileless grin. "Are you interested in a game of chess?"
Don John considers; a game would prevent an escape, but he doesn't want to return to the bedroom's confinement yet and it may spare him from conversation. He nods and Antonio sets out the board pieces.
"What colour would you like to be?"
"Black."
Antonio hums, "Of course."
That is how Hero finds them later, locked in a match.
Antonio notices her first, smiling as she approaches. "Hero, come join us."
Don John starts, looking up from the board to see her. She hovers beside the sofa, looking at him.
"You are out of bed?"
"I… uh… wanted to stretch my legs."
She nods, offering a shy smile. His pulse stumbles.
"Sit with us, Hero," Antonio says. "Perhaps you will bring me some luck. Don John is proving a challenge."
"I can believe it," she responds, eyes twinkling as she settles next to Don John.
The sofa is not wide and her leg brushes his own, thigh and hip pressing into him. He is unable to concentrate for the rest of the game and at last Antonio announces a triumphant "Checkmate".
Hero gives his elbow a commiserating squeeze, fingers pressing through his sleeve. He gazes at her face and finds he doesn't care about the loss.
"Good game," Antonio cheers, "Will you join us now for supper?"
"Um…" Don John looks at Antonio then back to Hero.
Her hazel-green eyes transfix him from underneath her lashes, "We would be glad for your company, but only do so if it is not too much."
A tether pulls taut on the rib closest to his heart. "Yes."
Hero's whole face brightens with her smile and Don John forgets to breathe.
:-x-:
Hero watches Don John over supper, appreciating the subtle shifts in his features that show his pleasure or amusement, the gleam in his dark eyes when he looks across at her and her throat closes, the world narrowing to the two of them. More than once, in her distraction, she misses a question and blushes through a stammered response as Beatrice fixes her with a cattish grin and her uncle smiles into his napkin and he gazes at her with an intensity that causes her skin to flame for a whole different reason.
She is amazed by the easy exchanges between Don John and her cousins. She remembers the venom with which Benedick once spat his name. Now he banters with him in the same manner she used to see him do with Claudio, although Don John's retorts are quicker, with more bite. It almost seems to be a game between the three of them, of which Don John appears a begrudging participant while Benedick and Beatrice attempt to bait him. Yet Hero notices a spark in his eyes as he delivers each dry rejoinder, a slight curve to his lips. On occasion, his gaze flicks to her mid-drawl and her heart frissons, heat pooling in her stomach. He has such lovely cheekbones.
She remarks on this strange affability to Beatrice, after supper, when they are alone. Her cousin smiles, likening Don John to a bad-tempered cat that hisses and scratches yet one cannot help but grow fond of.
"You talk of him like he were a pet," Hero remarks, scrunching her nose.
Beatrice's eyes gleam, grin curling. "Sweet cousin, are you jealous?"
Hero purses her lips and does not pick at the tangled knot of feelings she experiences when watching the three of them together. She does not think about how Don John will remain here in Padua when she eventually has to return home.
:-x-:
"Where is the Bastard of Aragon?"
Hero's hand tightens around her goblet, the wine bitter on her tongue.
It is Christmas Eve and Benedick and Beatrice are hosting a grand celebration. The house, which was spacious before, now borders on claustrophobic, adorned in festive garlands and packed with all the noblemen and gentlewomen of Padua. Minstrels play to the delight of the dancers and carols are sung as mulled wine is served.
Hero had trailed Beatrice for as long as she could, wielding smiles and polite conversation like a sword and shield. She has not been amongst such numbers since the summer and finds it stiflingly warm. As their host's cousin and a newcomer to Padua, she is an unfortunate novelty and garners more attention than she knows what to do with. She had grown used to the tepid welcomes of Messina and was startled by the number of gentlemen who approached her, asking her to dance. She accepted them, not knowing how else to respond, and spent a dizzying amount of time spinning from one partner to another until Benedick cut in to rescue her.
Now, as she steals a few moments for herself, she overhears a conversation that makes her stomach crawl.
"He was in a fire. I doubt he will show his face, I hear his injuries were severe."
"Disfigured, is he? Well, sinners shall burn. No doubt the outside now matches the soul within."
Hero sets her goblet down. As she slips from the room she stops a serving maid and bids if her absence is noticed that it be reported to Beatrice she has a headache. It is in part true, for she can no longer bear the noise and the crowds.
She hurries up the stairs. It is darker on the upper landing, with only a few sconces lit. Shadows flicker as she passes down the corridors. She stops before the familiar door and knocks.
From inside Don John answers, "Come in."
She enters and sees his form go rigid, silhouetted against the window where he is sat. "Hero… I… did not think… I was not expecting you…"
The room is dark save for a few candles and the gossamer moonlight. She notices there is no fire in the hearth and shivers; it is colder here than downstairs.
Her fingers waver on the handle of the door as she closes it behind her. "I hope I am not unwelcome…?"
"No…" He starts to rise from the window seat. "But…"
She crosses to him before he can advise her to leave and settles on the window seat beside him. Looking at his surprised expression, his face a clash of shadow and pale moonlight, she is reminded of their conversation back in that dank, dark prison. This time, there are no bars between them.
"What of the revel?" He asks, sitting back down next to her.
"It grew wearisome and my feet are aching." She adjusts the skirts of her gown, the crimson fabric cascading around her. If she were in Messina, her father would never have allowed her to wear something so bold, but Beatrice gifted it to her. "I would rather be here."
A shadow cuts across his mouth. "You would forsake all the greats and nobles of Padua for the company of one sour bastard?"
"I would have done so sooner but did not wish to appear impolite."
He turns to the window. "Your pity is misplaced. I am content in my solitude."
"I have not come out of pity," she replies, indignant. "I am here because I want to be." Her fingers bunch in her skirt. "Is it so strange that I prefer your company to a room of strangers?"
"Yes," he breathes, fogging the glass in silver wisps.
She leans towards him. "Don John—"
"I never apologised for what I did to you."
She is taken aback and her eyes search his face, but his thoughts are closed behind a wall. She doesn't have to ask him what he is referring to; there is only one thing neither of them can forget.
"No…" she regards him carefully, "Not in words."
His mouth twists wryly. "You absolve me of too much. I was cruel and wrong. I caused you unpardonable harm and I know you are still suffering for it. I am sorry. You do not deserve it."
Hero inhales, rendered speechless as she gazes at his bowed head. After a moment, she composes her voice, "Someone is hoping for better than coal from Befana this year."
He lifts his head, eyes sparkling as a surprised chuckle escapes him. "More like a stick to beat me round the head with."
"I will not desire that."
"You are a Saint."
Hero smiles, daring to reach out and interlock his fingers with hers. "I did rise from the grave."
Don John stares down at their entwined fingers, his thumb running over her skin, pausing at the slither of oleanders peeking from under her sleeve. "I must be your martyrdom. To have your soul bound with a sinner's like mine."
She shakes her head, shifting closer, until their knees knock together, cradling his hand in both of her own. "I welcome it."
His gaze leaps to hers, "Hero…"
"John," he falls silent, "I am honoured to share this bond with you." She lifts his hand to her lips and kisses his fingers, "My soulmate, my friend."
He stares, moonlight causing his eyes to shine. "Saint," he breathes.
She smiles, clasping his fingers like a prayer. "Saint, Enchantress. You must cease these lofty comparisons, I will think too high of myself."
"You are beyond this mortal realm." His thumb circles her wrist-bone. "How many men asked you to dance tonight?"
She splutters, "I-I — I do not recount—"
"Every man who is not married or blind, I expect. You said your feet are aching. They must have been lining up to dance with you."
She shakes her head. "That is an exaggeration. I am simply a new face to them."
His voice is low and drawling, "I have no doubt your face was what drew them but for more reason than it being new."
"I — I do not know their reasons."
His gaze is hooded in midnight. "Don't you?"
She presses her lips together, cheeks blazing.
His fingers curl around her wrist. "I do."
Her sleeve falls back as he lifts her hand, bending to press a passionate kiss to its inside where the oleanders bloom. Her pulse stutters under his lips.
"...John…"
He pulls back, fingers stroking the petals on her skin. "I cannot blame them for being enchanted… nor fault them for coveting your attention… even as I despise them for it."
Her breath hitches. "You sound… envious."
"I am." Something wild prowls in his gaze. "But not for the reason you think." He lowers her hand into her lap, robbing her of his own. "I envy their clean slates, the chances they have not yet burned with you. That they are discovering your true value now and not too late."
He retreats and she pounces forwards. "Why do you say it is too late?"
He expels a breath and even the candles feel it around the room, their light shuddering. "If I were not your soulmate… you would not be here. You should not be here after how I hurt you."
"But John…" she clasps his hand again. "I have forgiven you."
He jerks his hand from hers and turns his head away, closing his eyes. "You should leave. You should not have come."
Hero stares at him, racking her brain for what she can say, how she can reach him. In the end, she rises, her gown whispering as it slides from the seat.
She crosses the room and pauses short of the door. "Would you like to know their names? The men who asked me to dance."
He looks at her, face creased in shadow. "I do not—"
"Because I cannot remember them, any of them." She glides forward, pausing beside a candle on the desk and blowing it out. "Not one of them made an impression." She moves across the room to the candelabra on the mantle and blows out its flames, one-by-one. "But you know who I was thinking of?"
Don John stands. "What are you doing?"
"I was thinking of you as those men spun me around the ballroom," she slinks towards him, "I was wishing it was your arms who held me. It is you that I want, not them."
"Hero… if this is because of the soul-bond…"
"No," She stops before him. "It may be the reason we came to know each other… but it is not that which sways my heart. Or do you forget I almost married Claudio."
A soft snarl escapes him. It is all the incitement she needs.
Hero picks up the candle from the bedside table and, with a single breath, extinguishes the light. The room is thrown into darkness, except for the slither of moonlight through the window. She sets the candlestick back on the table and cradles Don John's jaw through the darkness, her fingers running over the beard she can no longer see.
"Now, in the dark, both our slates are clean…" She trails her fingers down his throat, careful of his scars. "There is no one to witness and no marks to see…" Her fingers hover over the point where she can feel his pulse hammering. "It is only you and I and what we please."
She feels it as his whole body shudders then his lips crash onto hers and his arms circle her waist, pressing her to him. She clutches his shoulder, fingers threading through his hair, grabbing tufts of raven locks, as she takes care not to aggravate his injuries. His mouth moves, warm and fevered, against hers. She can feel the wild thing trembling under his skin and she kisses him hard, letting him know she doesn't mind a little teeth.
They move against each other, two bodies, one shadow, in the dark. They cannot see the other's reactions, but they hear them in the little gasps and groans and stuttered breaths. They can feel them too as their hands roam over one another, and it is like they are writing letters to each other again, their fingers tracing words into the parchment of their skin, imparting everything from Hero to John and Dear to Yours. Secret messages that are theirs alone.
:-x-:
"Don John, may I have a word in private."
Don John pauses, weighing Benedick's sober expression with the amount of wine he consumed during the Christmas feast and wonders what has occurred to drain the rosy glow from his cheeks. Hero turns from watching the musicians, glancing at him in concern. Have they been discovered?
Don John keeps his expression neutral as he follows Benedick out into the hall, which is looking much tidier now than it did this morning in the aftermath of last night's revelry.
"After you were injured in the fire, I wrote to inform your brother," Benedick begins.
Outwardly, Don John shows no reaction. Inwardly, he breathes a sigh of relief. Then this is not about Hero passing the night in his bed.
When he fell asleep last night with her curled in his arms, he had been too content to think of the consequences. He regretted that lapse when Nicholas discovered them in the morning, having come to check on Don John. While Hero had scurried to her own room in her underdress, her crimson gown hugged to her chest, Don John had made it clear to Nicholas he was not to breathe a word to anyone. He had developed a sort of camaraderie with Nicholas and the other servants since he joined the household in the summer and Don John didn't want to ruin that by threatening his friend, but he wouldn't risk Hero. Not that he had done anything to compromise her maidenhead (though his hands had wandered places…), but if word spread that she had been found in Don John's bed, it would be a scandal. He will not hurt her like that, again.
However, it seems Nicholas has kept his word and Benedick is none the wiser. "When you were better recovered, I wrote to assure your brother that you were safe and healing. His response arrived today."
He pulls out a letter and Don John's relief turns to mud in his stomach.
"He apologises that he is unable to come at once to Padua. As Prince of Aragon, he is obliged to oversee the ceremonies there." Don John rolls his eyes. "However, he is greatly relieved to hear you are healing — You look sceptical. Here, read it for yourself. You will see he is sincere."
Don John takes the letter but doesn't read it. Whatever pretty words his half-brother has penned, he doubts Don Pedro would feel anything but relief if his nettlesome bastard of a brother was extinguished in a fire.
"He asks that I keep him informed and alert him immediately if there is any change," Benedick continues, "He says he shall set forth as soon as Epiphany is ended."
Don John stiffens. Of course Don Pedro will come to disrupt his peace. Without meaning to, he glances towards the sitting room where he can hear laughter.
Benedick calls his attention back to him, "There is more."
Don John tenses, feeling a sense of foreboding. "What is it?"
:-x-:
Hero finds him in the stables, tending to the horses. "What are you doing here?" She hovers in the doorway. "Surely Benedick does not expect you to carry on your duties while you are injured?"
"He does not," Don John replies, continuing to brush the knots from Queen Mab's mane.
"Don John…" Hero steps inside, eying Petruchio uneasily as he munches from his bag of feed. "Something has happened. What is it?"
Don John pauses in his brushing and sighs, turning to face her. "Don Pedro is coming here. Benedick received the news today."
Her face morphs with surprise. "Don Pedro is coming to Padua? When?"
He sets the brush back on the hook. "He leaves after Epiphany."
"Why, then we have a few weeks yet." She moves across to him, winter cloak swishing around her. "His arrival does not change anything."
He considers her, noticing how she rubs her hands together, her cheeks flushed from the cold. He reaches out, his fingers curling around her own. She stills and their eyes lock. Don John raises her hand, massaging heat into her frozen fingers, blowing warmth onto the crimson tips.
"Why are you here, Hero?" She tenses and he rephrases the question. "In the stables, I mean. You are afraid of horses."
She glances over her shoulder at Petruchio as if remembering. "Nic-Nicholas said you might be here. I… um… you disappeared rather abruptly. I was… worried."
Don John squeezes her fingers, entwining them with his own. "Since you are here… I should introduce you."
She looks at him with sweet perplexion then her eyes widen as he guides her to Queen Mab. She goes rigid.
"It's alright," he strokes his fingers down the horse's nose with one hand and tugs on Hero's own with the other. "It's alright. Do you trust me?"
He realises too late that it is a foolish question but she looks at him, hazel-green eyes staring into his own and the hesitation fades from her face.
"Alright," she replies in a soft voice.
She lifts her hand, still supported in Don John's grasp, and rests it upon the horse's nose. Queen Mab shows little reaction to the touch and Hero draws in a breath. Don John leans against her, his fingers interlocked with hers as together they stroke the horse's nose.
"Oh," Hero gasps. "Oh, how beautiful you are."
Don John releases Hero's hand and she carries on petting Queen Mab, unaided. He unhooks the brush from its peg and holds it out to her. "Would you like to brush her?"
Hero takes the brush into her tentative hand and raises it to Queen Mab's mane.
Don John leans in behind her, resting one hand on her shoulder. "With confidence. Mab will not tolerate an uncertain touch."
Hero throws him a nervous look, but her brush-strokes become surer, combing out the midnight tresses.
"Good," he praises. "Would you like to meet the others?"
He leads her through the stables, introducing her to each of the horses there. He keeps close to her, assuring and encouraging her as she interacts with them. She even manages to feed one of them, giggling as the fat, old Falstaff eats from her hand.
"You are very good with them," Hero smiles at Don John. "I can tell they are very fond of you and you of them."
"They are fond of whoever feeds them," Don John mutters, ruffling Falstaff's mane. He steps away, dropping his hand. "But… I will be sorry to say goodbye to them."
Hero spins to him. "What do you mean?"
Don John exhales and turns to organise the stable equipment. "Don Pedro is coming to collect me. I am to return with him to Aragon."
He hears her gasp. She moves across to him. "You are returning to Spain?"
"I only came here to serve punishment. Now I am injured, I am no use to Benedick."
"He said so?"
"No. He did not put it like that. But I understand… if I am not a worker then I am an encumbrance. I cannot live as their guest indefinitely. I would not want to. Thus, the only place I have to go is Aragon."
Hero shifts, arms hugging herself under her cloak, and it is on his tongue to suggest they return to the house when she speaks. "Do you want to return to Aragon?"
He frowns at the wall. Aragon is where he has spent most of his life but it has never been his home. "Pedro will likely send me to one of his country estates where I can cause no trouble and will rot from the boredom."
"You could come to Messina." She says it simply, with the barest of tremors.
His gaze snaps to her, scrutinising her. "And what would I be there? Another of your workhands?"
"My husband… if you would like."
Don John's breathing stops. The world around them stills, time suspended.
Hero looks coyly at him from under thick lashes, gold flecks glitter in her hazel-green eyes and he knows she is earnest.
"Your choices are not that dire…" he utters and time starts again, his heart beating back into life, air rushing into his lungs, the taste of iron in his throat.
"If I had the choice of kings," she steps closer, "I would still choose you."
He shuts his eyes and opens them again. She is still there. Not a dream.
His hands reach for her even as his mind protests. She understands, stepping into him, latching onto the collar of his cloak and he fights a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold as her body brushes his own. He doesn't do her the disservice of asking if she is sure; she knows best what kind of man he is and still she does not baulk.
"Last chance…" he murmurs, drawing her closer, "...eat your words or I will follow you forever like a stray dog you made the mistake of feeding."
"Good." Her fingers run across his jaw. "It will be much easier to keep you out of trouble that way."
"I am trouble?" He gives a low chuckle, squeezing her waist. "Who is it that sneaks into prisons, ventures on treacherous journeys, and visits scoundrels' rooms at night?"
"Only the one scoundrel." She smiles at him and it is all light and warmth. "And he is the reason for everything."
There are conversations to be had and vulnerabilities to be addressed and all this will be done, but for now heat blooms where their mouths meet, bodies melding together. Don John cradles Hero's jaw as her fingers clutch his shoulder, curled against his neck, and there is no space between them, no distance to overcome. The horses look at the embracing humans with disinterest and return to their straw. They have seen this all before.
:-x-:
They are married in Padua.
Don John writes to her father requesting his consent to match and the response comes back urging the pair to marry without delay. A small service is arranged amongst the household. Hero is sorry that her father and Ursula cannot be there, but she is happy to have a private ceremony after the spectacle of the last.
The day of the wedding coincides with the first snowfall and Don Pedro's arrival, who is greeted at the door by a disappointed servant, "Oh, we thought you were the Friar". His bemusement at the turn of events is eclipsed by his visible relief at seeing Don John well, though still healing, and it is plain to all that only duty to his people had kept him from his brother's side for so long.
Hero walks down the aisle, a bouquet of snowdrops clasped in her hands and an irrepressible smile directed towards Don John, who gazes back at her with shining eyes. After the celebration and good cheer, the bride and groom are finally able to retire to their bedroom, bodies replacing clothes as their hands explore each other in the glow of the candles. Don John maps the flora across her form as she caresses their twin scars and his fingers press into her skin with the promise to tell her all their stories one day. When they come together it is as if their souls entwine into one and neither could ever be parted from the other; neither would want to be.
Winter draws back its spindly fingers and the newlyweds say their farewells to Padua, returning home to Messina. Husband and wife walk through the green fields of the coastal town as spring burgeons around them, the world awaking anew. They lie together amongst the wildflowers, the sun warming the air as the clouds idyll across the sapphire sky, a pleasant breeze carrying with it the scent of the sea.
His fingers skirt across her arm where the oleanders still cover her skin. Like his own scars, visible where he has rolled back his sleeves, their petals have faded to white. The grass tickles her calves as she rolls over to kiss along his throat and the rings of forget-me-nots. He freezes and she wonders if he will ever get over his surprise at her wanting him. Then, he melts into her, fingers latching in her curls as he brings his lips to hers.
"Hero," he says her name, like it means everything.
Flower Meanings:
Oleander – desire, beware; see also the myth of Hero & Leander
Forget-me-nots – true love, don't forget me
Snowdrop – hope