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Chapter Text

"Hero is a female name from Greek mythology; it comes from 'hḗrōs' (ἥρως) meaning 'demi-god'. In Latin, the word 'heros' was borrowed to mean more specifically a person with superhuman strength and unbreakable courage; one who protects and defends others in a self-sacrificial way."

I’ve always thought it was funny, naming a daughter who was destined to be a damsel in distress “Hero.” Perhaps damsel in distress is a bit overdramatic, but the idea fits what my life has been more closely than the superhuman rescuer invoked by my name. A hero is brave, strong, unbreakable, self-sacrificing. I am a lady, gentility and softness have been instilled in me my whole life. Beatrice has always been the strong one, the smart one, with her tongue sharp as a whip and her loyalty to those she loves more fearsome than the mightiest sword.

“You deserve to live for yourself, you know,” she tells me one day as we sit politely sweating under a tree, “Wanting to be happy isn’t selfish.”

“I am happy, cousin,” I say, slicing a pear and passing her half. “I am simply not so merry of spirit and wit as you are. We can’t all be such paragons of vivacity.” She laughs and tosses a pillow at me, shaking her head.

“If any of us is a paragon of any sort, it is surely you dearest! Lord knows I am far too silly to be any kind of good example.” I blush at the compliment, turning away to hide my smile, knowing Beatrice too well to try contradicting her.

Though we grew to be close as sisters over our visits each summer, I have never gotten used to the praise she heaps on me. It isn’t that I don’t get praise from any other sources; no, rather I had a near constant stream of flattery from my father, from my uncle, from Margaret, from whomever else was visiting. Comments on how gracefully I danced or politely I sat, how beautiful I looked in a certain dress, how lovely my smile. Those I could accept with every grace they sprang from. But compliments from Beatrice are different. Where everyone else seems to heap praise on my person— how sweet my smile was, how rosy my cheeks, how soft my manners— Beatrice seems to look beneath all that, and find someone rich in character as well as appearance, a person with a heart more golden than a sweet apple, and a mind with more depth than what polite conversation would betray. Where others look at me and see Leonato’s sweet daughter, Beatrice seems to look at me and see… a Hero worthy of her name.

I would lay awake at night sometimes as she snored softly next to me, sprawled across the wall of pillows that separated us so we could keep cool— Beatrice was a cuddler, and that wasn’t always the most comfortable of positions in the heat of the summer, even in the cool of the night— and think of what it might be like to actually be that woman. To impress people with my words, not just my appearance, to speak and be listened to because my audience valued what I had to say.

The Hero of my imagination and Beatrice’s eyes was brave like her name suggested, she solved problems that made her father and uncle panic, she spoke with confidence to enraptured guests, entertaining as I had so often seen Beatrice do (though even in my imagination, I was never so cutting or clever as Beatrice was; no, her particular way of wielding words was too much for even my imagination). Perhaps that Hero could catch someone’s eye at a gathering one day, his eyes watching her as she addressed one of her father’s political friends like an educated woman. Maybe he would see that Hero smiling as she gestured calmly, posture not just proper but assured, and wonder what else she had to say, if he might hold her in such enraptured conversation as she seemed to hold court. Perhaps after a while he might pull her aside and offer to refill her drink, and ask after her opinion on how her people were governed, after a while the conversation slipping to something more friendly…

But no, I never let my idle dreaming get farther than that. I may be the governor’s daughter, but I am not the same strong lady as Beatrice, or even my aunt, before she passed. My quips and comments do not flow as quickly, nor can I convince a group of anyone— let alone dignitaries or guests or my father— with a simple yet genius look. I always seem to take longer to generate something that I feel is good enough to contribute, something that cannot be criticized or gently corrected. By the time I have anything I would not be ashamed to share at large, the topic has passed, or the conversation shifted in a different direction altogether.

Besides, to draw that much attention to myself, to brazenly submit my opinion to all and sundry for examination, me, a soft girl of 18, who has barely seen an opportunity to stray from my father’s estate... That would take more bravery than I have in my whole body. I would much rather stick to gathering smiles and compliments and observations of what I see around me than requesting critique on my best ideas. Better to be Leonato’s gentle daughter, than Leonato’s embarrassingly foolish child.

This evening, father informed us that we were to receive an important party: the Prince and his men, having just returned from war. All of us were excited at this news. Not only did this promise the celebration and entertainment required for such noble guests, it also signaled the end of a very intense time for us and our neighbors. Beatrice especially was particularly relieved by this news, though another might say she was more inconvenienced or entertained. Indeed, she made a fair point of announcing her coming joust with her longtime opponent, Lord Benedick. Our uncles and friends guffawed, tickled as ever by her toothless ire, but I knew that her boisterous and flamboyant opposal masked reluctant delight. Of course, I was not so foolish as to mention it to her, and so I kept it to myself.

Only Ursula looked on this news with any trepidation.

“When the wind blows from east, it bodes not well for man nor beast,” she quoted to us as we readied ourselves for bed on the eve of their arrival.

“Please, the only thing a wind might signal is a full belly or an oncoming storm. Both, if as many soldiers as we are promised arrive on the morrow.” Ursula sucked her teeth at this and helped me out of my stays while Beatrice met her ire with an arched brow. For my maid’s sake I struggled to hide my mirth.

“What do you think shall come about from this visit?” I asks her after Ursula has gone to her own bed to rest, my hands wringing the sheets.

“Nothing terribly significant, I should think,” my cousin sighs, gently stroking my hair. Her tone shifts to mischief. “Unless of course, you charm the prince into marrying you!” I giggle and swat away her hand, now tugging playfully at my curls.

“Oh? And what of your charms cousin?” I whisper-yell. “Your wit and conversation is renowned for miles, perhaps you shall be the one to snare a husband!”

“Snare, indeed! The day I get a husband is the day I’ve lost my mind! No, my Hero, I shall leave the wedding and populating this house with angelic children to you.”

“Beatrice!” We giggle softly into the dark, finally settling into slumber. As I lay there, I wonder if any of her words, teasing though they may be, hold any weight. Father had begun to mention a union for me in the future, though it remained fully hypothetical. I try on the notion of being a wife in my head. I'm not quite sure I am prepared to be a married woman yet, but the idea of having a husband and being in love has begun to seem brighter and brighter in recent months.

Just before I drift off, I resolve to ask Beatrice and Margaret their thoughts in the morning. Or perhaps I shall wait until all the commotion of the Prince’s coming party has settled down. Surely there will be time enough to decide what I do or don’t want in the coming years.

Oh, how wrong I turn out to be.

Chapter Text

“I think a hero is any person really intent on making this a better place for all people.” – Maya Angelou

The Prince and his men, freshly bathed and laundered, were all smiles. Upon exchanging the required pleasantries, Don Pedro clasps my father’s hand.

“You embrace your charge too willingly,” he says warmly. He looks at Beatrice, something unfamiliar lighting in his eyes, before landing on me. “I think this is your daughter?

“Her mother hath many times told me so!” Everyone shares a good-natured chuckle, and I join in softly, though privately, I detest how frequently my ‘legitimacy’ is called into question in the name of comedy.

“Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her?” My eyes flick to the source of the response, and it is Beatrice’s sparring partner, Sir Benedick. His tone is teasing, but for a second I swear I can see something harder flicker over his face. The possibility only makes me like him more. For all his barbs, he seems genuine at heart. 

“Signor Benedick, no, for then you were but a child.” There are guffaws at this, the man himself joining in after a brief look of feigned shock. 

As the conversation shifts to more serious concerns— the anticipated length of the Prince’s stay, the situation of their company— Benedick falls into gentle combat with Beatrice (who has been practically bouncing on her toes since the group walked into the courtyard and seems far too thrilled to be exchanging verbal blows with her self-proclaimed enemy). Not really a part of either, I take this opportunity to get a good look at our visitors. 

Sweeping my gaze over the group at large I see a collection of who I assume are the more important members of their caravan. The average foot-soldiers are lodging in the village, no doubt. Aside from Don Pedro and Benedick, I see an older gentleman whose name escapes me but who has visited before, and several other well-dressed men flanking the Prince on the left and right. I hope that this is the extent of the guests we are expected to house. Though our estate is large, there are few rooms prepared at the moment, having had such short notice. It would make for a poor image of Messina if we have to house any guests of noble heritage in an inn. I make a note to speak with Ursula about accommodations later.

One man, standing on the Prince’s right, looks strangely familiar. I struggle to place him for a few moments before giving up; no doubt there will be introductions shortly. He stands at attention and looks to be about my age, not more than a few years older. The sun seems to have favored him during their campaign, his entire face seems burnished gold. He has a boyish charm about him that I’m sure Margaret will gush over later as we ready for dinner as he watches the Prince’s exchange with my father with a kind of loyalty that reminds me of a child looking up at their father. It’s a look that seems sweet and rather cute, though I’m certain that he would not appreciate such gentle descriptors. 

I look over to the other side of the group, and my gaze catches on a man standing at the very back. He is dressed very finely, if simply, and stands with an air that suggests importance. Unlike the other men, his attention seems to be focused anywhere except Don Pedro, a look of disinterest bordering on disdain. I want to be pricked by indignation— our estate is the finest in all Messina, what right does this stranger have to show such unveiled displeasure at it!— but I can’t seem to muster up the energy to do so, eyes locked on his refined face. 

Maybe he has suffered a loss in the military exchange from which the party comes? Though the Prince’s missive said that none of name were lost, people from all places can be worthy friends, something I learned playing with the servants’ children as a girl. With so few peers to interact with, I was allowed to explore the gardens with some local children from educated, if not noble, families. They were often kinder than some of the people I was made to interact with when father entertained guests. Though my childhood friends did not know to properly bow and scrape to each other as if we were each inconveniencing the other with our planned outing, they had a kind of honesty that I found refreshing. I was never expected to be anything other than a child when I played in the gardens. How long has it been since I felt so unencumbered? My time with my friends decreased once I began taking on increasing responsibilities on my sixteenth birthday, preparing to one day be lady of the house. It must have been years since I had been so candid with anyone except Beatrice, and even then only in privacy.

Suddenly, his gaze snaps to mine and I realize that I have been staring at this unnamed man with rigid posture and guarded eyes. He regards me with a calculating look, sizing me up. No doubt he sees a lady who has forgotten propriety and stared blatantly at a guest to whom she has yet to be introduced. While also ignoring the Prince, who is speaking directly in front of me to my father! I blush, and cast my gaze away— anywhere— in shame. 

In looking the complete opposite direction from tall, dark and broody, my eyes land again on the young man, who I realize has also been staring at me. He starts at our sudden eye contact, surprised as I am, then smiles, and I swear his eyes sparkle. I can’t help but smile softly back. 

“A dear happiness to women; they would else have been troubled by a pernicious suitor!” Beatrice’s voice cuts my observations short, bringing me back to the present, where her discourse with Benedick has somehow gone from teasingly flirty to nearly full-on hostility. My brows raise as he ends their bout with a well-placed jab between the ribs, thoroughly slashing any comebacks Beatrice might have had. 

“You always end with a jade’s trick,” she grumbles, and I think she says something else, but it is lost in the sound of hands clapping. I gently grasp her elbow in support, turning back to my father and the Prince who have apparently finished their discussion.

With a flourish, Don Pedro turns to address his party. 

“Friends! Signor Claudio,” I bite my cheek as I pair the name with the familiar face, “and Signor Benedick! My dear friend Leonato has invited us all to stay at least a month! Our gracious host,” he spares father a look “prays some occasion may detain us longer. I dare swear he is no hypocrite!” A chorus of “here, here”s goes up in the small group. 

Beatrice and I join in the applause— me excitedly, thrilled at finally having something to do, people to speak with, someone new to prove myself for, and Beatrice half-heartedly, looking as though she swallowed a lemon. 

Don Pedro calls for someone named John, and the tall, proud one from before steps forward, assessing my father’s household and settling back on the Prince. Ever the jovial guest, Don Pedro presents him to us as his brother. Brother! I look between the two men, my observation unobserved as their attention holds on father. For the life of me, they do not look similar; I never would have known. I rearrange the rooms I had assigned to each of these men in my head. I’m so busy thinking I nearly miss his polite, if stilted response. 

As we follow father and the Prince— Don Pedro, I remind myself, there are two princes under our roof now— I wonder what all the coming weeks will bring. Beatrice beside me seems to be thinking on the same thing. 

“Heaven save us from the follies of our own entertainment,” she says, just a touch more dramatic than I think she needs to be.

“Fret not, cousin,” I whisper to her, slowing our steps slightly so we are not overheard. “Did not you call me an angel? I shall put in a request with the Almighty.” She fails to stifle a snort, earning a curious look from Benedick as the doors close behind us. I suppress a smile myself, thrilled that this time it was I who made her laugh.

Chapter Text

“Heroes are made by the paths they choose, not the power they are graced with.” —Brodi Ashton

“Hero, walk with me a moment, daughter,” father says, pulling me aside as Beatrice and I make our way to dinner.

I nod, throwing an apologetic look at Beatrice, who responds in kind with a look that says she understands, though there is a wary edge to her complexion. Her concern makes me falter a moment— if Beatrice has seen reason to suspect… anything, really, she must have excellent reason, her keen eyes always perceive more than her jesting tongue tells— but the look passes just as quickly as it comes. 

“Of what would thou speak to me, my lord?” We turn the corner towards the study, arm in arm. Gesturing that I wait, he ushers us into the room and closes the door behind us, turning to face me.

“Your uncle Antonio has related a most peculiar tale to me, child. One that, should it prove true, would mark the changing of stars for our family, ‘wise I would not bother to relate it to you.” His hands fly about in the air as he begins, and I smile at his animation, fondness for my old father swelling within me. It is so like him to be thus unable to contain his enthusiasm, governor and noble though he may be. I nod for him to continue.

“I do acquaint you of this dream that you may be best prepared to answer well, should it come to pass. First, I must ask you: to whom do you owe fealty, Hero?” This is not where I was expecting this to go, though, on second thought, I was not really certain where he was going to begin with.

“My Lord, I do first owe loyalty to God, as all wisdom taught me, then to you, as lord of both my house and blood.” Surely this is not a test of faith or loyalty? Though we attend to church regularly and abide by the commandments, father has never been a particularly devout man. Could this be about honor? What did my uncle say that this line of questioning be brought up?

He merely nods, as though he had expected this answer— which of course, he should have. How often has he praised my obedience in all things?

 “And in serving God you must honor your father as judge, this is good.” A pause, and I can see his mind whirring in restrained hope, eyes sparkling. “Child, I have been acquainted with the Prince’s love of and intention to wed you.”

I blink. I do not have a response to this. The prince, Don Pedro… love me ? I take a moment to order my thoughts before responding carefully.

“...I feel the weight that this would hold, should it be the verity. Indeed, it would be a great honor to be so singled out by his majesty. But I do not know him, nay, he does not know me . How could it be that he came to love me?” Marrying well is what I have been raised to do. Learning to manage the house, assisting where appropriate in the vineyard, years of etiquette and hosting and manners, all to find an honorable match and build a respectable home. To marry Don Pedro would certainly be an honor, but it would also take me away from my home, from beloved Messina. Who would stay to keep these fields, these people once my father is gone? Surely the prince of all people could not set aside his other princely duties to manage one ville. What would become of my home?

“Yes, yes, it is all very romantic. And of course, it is by no means certain. Oh, but it is such fantastical news, which is why I advise you of it now, so that you might know what decision to make should the time come,” father is pacing now, in addition to gesturing grandly. It does not seem nearly as endearing now as it did moments ago. 

“Forgive me, sir, but do I understand correctly, that you wish me to accept the prince’s suit, should he petition me?” At his eager nod I continue. “But that cannot— that is to say— would it not be prudent to perhaps make our excuses—”

“What nonsense is this? Surely you do not fear that the prince would make a poor husband to you? Indeed, he is everything I could hope for in a match for my child and heir. Wealthy, respectable, a war hero, polite in all the ways that are proper. He does not dally in brothels as some men are obvious to do, he has no bastards to speak of, he would be harder pressed to mistreat you than to care for you as his own princess. Refuse him?” 

I backpedal, knowing that if I do not make myself heard now, he will get too caught up in explaining to me why I am merely afraid, and the opportunity to speak will never come.

“No, certainly. That is, he would be a most worthy prize to marry. It is only that, who shall care for Messina, if not my husband? The prince would surely have much larger places to care for than just my home.” Father seems about to speak, but seeing his overly-kind expression, I plow ahead, fearful of being unheard. 

“For certain, it would not be proper for me to accept a proposal at such short a notice as this! Our house could draw scrutiny among the peerage if it seems any wedding be rushed, let alone one so high as a royal!” Again he opens his mouth, again a press on, more fervent now than I may have ever spoken to my father in the whole of my life.

“I would by no means ever seek to dishonor you or this house, nor his majesty, but I fear that in accepting his hand I would do naught but that! He is— royalty! How can I be the wife of—” 

At last, I am cut off. He is angry now, or bears the beginnings of it. 

“Dare you say that this house, that my house is unworthy to be wed to a prince?” My heart nearly stops, I can feel myself grow pale. Only a selfish, fearful girl would bring such discredit to her father’s door. 

“No!–”

“Has his majesty not been my friend these many years? Have we not hosted him before his venture into most recent battle, and countless times before that, to when he was not even much older than you are now?” 

“Yes, but—”

“Silence! I love you, daughter, but I will have none of this female anxiety over what could only bring our house higher in the country. Should the prince’s love and intent prove true, you will be most wise in accepting it.” He stops and faces me fully, standing at his full height (which is not great, but is taller than mine). A familiar tightness around my chest rears its head as I bow mine. Mollified, his displeasure slips away as easily as it had come. 

“There child, it will not be so bad. You have been raised well. Has not it been so often said that thou art the most worthy jewel of Messina, even the great hills that surround it? You should make a fine princess.” He pulls me into an embrace, and I feel him press a gentle kiss to my crown as I am tucked into his arms like the child I was not so long ago. 

“I know you will not disappoint me.”

___

Dinner is a strange affair, where I sit between Beatrice and my uncle and laugh at her barbs exchanged with Signor Benedick. My appetite is not lessened by my impending instruction, nor do I appear outwardly as anything other than the happy and polite hostess that received these guests. Inwardly, I feel something akin to the look of utter discomfort that graces the face of the prince’s brother, John.

Smiling pleasantly, I sit and ponder, allowing my mind to turn over the conversation in the study and wander. My protestations were not from anxiety, at least not the kind my father had guessed. Truly, I was not nervous to wed the prince; it is all I have been raised for. To be beautiful and sweet and charming, capable to run a home and produce fine children. It has always been the direction I walked. 

I stumble upon the memory of that conversation those days ago, when Beatrice had bade me in more earnestness than I cared to observe that I ought to live for myself. Duty and honor bind me to serve my family, and to do so I must obey my father, though doing so may dishonor myself or my own wishes. “Wanting to be happy is not selfish.” What do I want?

Truly, I cannot reason why this sudden news has turned me so. It is what I am meant to do, what I have always sought to do. Men may find honor in war or in labor for those in lower classes, in distinguishment through trade. Where women may find it is either in their wit, as Beatrice has, charming so many with her sharp tongue, or in the home. Try though I might, I have never been clever like Beatrice. I look over at her now. She has just said something apparently witty at Signor Benedick’s expense, if the delighted laughter of Don Pedro and Count Claudio and the red-cheeked displeasure radiating from the man in question are anything to go by. 

She allows a small, smug smile as she sips her wine before attending to the conversation at hand again and I realize something. Even the victor, she cannot always acknowledge her own role in the fight. Others may declare her winner, she and her opponents may both draw blood, but when all is said and done, she is still Lady Beatrice, Leonato’s entertaining, older niece. Already, nearing five and twenty, there are whispers of judgment that she is yet unwed, though they evaporate as soon as she graces any room with her presence— even without claws, Beatrice is no lioness to trifle with. My cousin, my own hero, who fights the battles I secretly wish I could, who speaks and is listened to with half an ear of counsel, is hardly more real than I. 

I swallow the mouthful of bread I have just bitten off, suddenly no longer caring for the taste of it. I look back to the prince, his noble profile good-natured and smiling. He is someone who people listen to. He is, quite literally, a war hero. Men and women alike seek after his approval not just because of his station, but because of his reputation as a good man. I cannot command a room with my wit, cannot demand fealty from those around me. I cannot be a hero on my own, but I can earn the approval and advancement of my family. I can make my father proud. 

Contemplating this, movement just to the side of Don Pedro catches my eye, and I notice Count Claudio again, staring at me. Perhaps he has been made aware of his companion’s intentions. Well, I think, here is one man I can win over . Let him tell his friend that I am amiable. I smile at him over my goblet. To my surprise, he blushes deep crimson before smiling back. 

Chapter Text

“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.”
― E.E. Cummings

If there is one thing I love about hosting company, it is the guaranteed revelry promised the first available eve after guests’ arrival. The thrum of music and laughter, the thrill of dancing under the moonlight— a bit like a fairy from the stories Ursula used to tell me— and the relief of finally having people outside of our normal circle to speak to and joke with.

Whatever the reason, a celebration is one responsibility that does not bite me with teeth of fear. No, if there is one thing I know at which I cannot fail, it is smiling and getting others to smile with me. These accepted revels are things I look forward to most when visitors darken our doorways.

So it is this evening as the members of my household and nobles from Messina await our honored guests in the freshly decked courtyard. Candles in little glass baubles illuminate the space, twinkling like stars plucked, borrowed from the sky.

The tantalizing scent of food floats on the air, the warm breath of summer carrying promises of amusement, gaiety, and other treats under the dome of heaven. I close my eyes and turn into it for a moment, the breeze just strong enough to stir the scent of grapes and still-warm soil up from the fields. It touches my face so softly as it has a thousand other times, and I am again filled with how much I love this place, my home.

If the prince does ask me I wonder if he might be persuaded to take a home near here, I think. I have hardly been ten miles from the seat of our house, let alone as far as Aragon. I shake the thoughts free and turn back to the conversation at hand.

“Think you that the Prince’s brother, John the Bastard will join our festivities this evening?,” my father wonders aloud. “A surly enough fellow, but a body of his Majesty’s party nonetheless. Was not Prince John here at supper?”

“I saw him not,” uncle replies.

“You noticed him not, you mean.” Says Beatrice, “And how fortunately for you! How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see him but I am heartburned an hour after.” The gentlemen, Margaret, and Ursula erupt into laughter. Beatrice preens.

I stifle a chuckle of my own, amused at her— admittedly apt— description of the Don, not wishing to lay discourtesy upon my guest. “He is of a very melancholy disposition.”

As ever, Beatrice seems to soften at my words, and her next seem made to temper her initial judgment of the man. “A pity indeed! He were an excellent man that were made just in the midway between him and Benedick. The one is too like an image and says nothing, and the other too like my lady’s eldest son, evermore tattling.” Father jumps in now.

“Then half Signior Benedick’s tongue in Count John’s mouth, and half Count John’s melancholy in Signor Benedick’s face–”

“With a good leg and a good foot, uncle,” Beatrice cuts back in, never to be outshone or out-jested, “and money enough in his purse, such a man would win any woman in the world if he could get her goodwill.”

With this I must agree. Melancholy, tart, quiet, even dare I say bitter, Count John is still one of the finest looking men any of us has ever seen. I think back to the kiss he placed on my hand as he passed by Beatrice, Margaret, and I on our way to ready for the revel after dinner. Though not in any way inappropriate, the unexpected timing of it threw me off.

I faintly brush the back of my hand with a distracted fingertip, remembering the rough graze of soft lips and evening scruff, the man’s ever-serious stare seeming to pierce mine even as he bent low over my hand. For a moment, I could have sworn his kiss held the weight of something like a salute, his eyes heavy with some purpose unfamiliar to me… But no, it was over in a moment, and our groups passed on to our separate destinations.

Oh yes, I think, Beatrice has the right of it. Half Benedick’s charm with John’s intensity could get away with a great many things.

The conversation turns into the well-traveled path of Beatrice— she will never get a husband with her sharp, clever tongue, father says. She is too cursed, says uncle. She parries back, too cursed is rather not cursed at all! And so on. I cast my eyes around the courtyard once more, content to listen.

Musicians from Messina proper tune instruments and play little ditties in the corner set aside especially for them. The flute player, a man in his forties with a patently mischievous glow to his smile, who has attended every festivity we have held for as long as I can remember, catches my eye and tips his hat to me with a grin. I giggle and give a small curtsy back.

His daughter was once one of the local children with whom I ran wild across the vineyard with before I had to become a lady. What was her name? Barbary, perhaps, if memory serves. She stopped joining the group of children that crowed about the grounds with me a few years ago. I wonder where life has taken her now. If she has been taken on to work elsewhere in Messina, if she perhaps has a family of her own now. As I apparently soon will, too.

The gentle scramble of the musician’s practicing suddenly cuts out, replaced by a rolling drum. Hearing our cue, we lash our masks on. The buzzing of the drum seems to build. Excited giggles erupt around the group of those already gathered in the courtyard. I look to Beatrice, ever the shining star among company, and she grins her contagious grin at me; I grin back. As we lean into the flow of guests beginning to surround the draped archway that serves as the great entrance, I feel a hand at my elbow.

I look back and meet my father’s gaze, still merry but lined with the steel of authority. “Daughter,” his voice is the cool warmth reserved for when he speaks to me in company— the soft tone of a loving parent tempered with an edge only I can hear. “Remember what I told you. If the Prince do solicit you in that kind, you know your answer.”

I know you will not disappoint me. Flute notes whirl through the air to join the drums. Smile still fixed in place below my mask, I nod.

Sensing my discomfort, or perhaps guessing it, Beatrice attempts to soften severity of the pending proposal’s appearance.

“The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not wooed in good time. If the Prince be too
important, tell him there is measure in everything, and so dance out the answer.” I do laugh at this. The very hand of a king would be nothing but a story for a jolly afternoon to reminisce on if it were not to her liking. It is another reason for me to be grateful to her strength and humor, but I know that hers is not a strength I can put on. Where Beatrice has the blessing of unimportance, I have the burden of my father’s lack of a son. Though she may be merry all her life, the fate of a governance sits on my marriage.

I smile gratefully at her, but for once, I wish my cousin would not pierce every seriousness with her wit. This is one foe I know even her fierceness cannot defeat. My father laughs too, but I can see his irritation with her lack of seriousness as well.

“Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.”

She winks. “I have a good eye, uncle; I can see a church by daylight.”

“The revelers are entering!” Beatrice uses the cheer brought on by this cry as a distraction and pulls me forward through the crowd to the very front. The viols have joined in, and now intertwine with the fluttering flutes, the beating drums still strong underneath it all. She grips my hand more firmly for a moment before letting go. I look up at her through my mask, as I have so many times before, and I am struck by how much love I have for her. For her support, her kindness, her strength.

Perhaps I will take some of that strength for myself, I think. I straighten my mask one last time, and draw myself up to my full height. My hips sway to the beat of the music, and I think of what all this night may bring. It’s just a party. Nothing you haven’t done a dozen times before.

Beyond the arch, footmen open the doors to the house, the gauzy hangings dancing in the sudden breeze. Through the opening a group of finely-dressed men in masks come, flanking one man dressed even more finely than the others and wearing a mask resembling a lion. The crowd gathered outside cheers.

Though the masks make it difficult to identify anyone exactly, I can feel the undeniable weight of a purposeful gaze on me as I survey the newcomers along with the rest of the crowd. The lion man steps towards me with his hand outstretched.

“Lady, will you walk about with your friend?”

I take his hand, and as he leads me to the dance floor, I take a deep breath. The music swells, and the revel begins in earnest.

Chapter Text

“Sometimes there are no words to help one's courage. Sometimes you just have to jump.” ― Clarissa Pinkola Estés

Hand in hand, the Prince dances me across the courtyard, his smile visible under his clownish half-mask. We must lean close to be heard at all amidst the rampant sounds of the celebrations.

“This light falls on you sweetly, lady. It seemeth me that heaven’s grace is reflected by your radiance.”

I thank you, my lord. I would thank you personally were that I knew your name— i’faith, elsewise a face would suffice for appropriate gratitude, but as we are at a masked dance…” He laughs— I made the prince laugh!— and something too like pride swells within me before I catch myself and temper it appropriately. Charity does not abide comparison, Hero.

“So it is. Yet do we not still dance as softly as bared faces would? Such sweet partners surely have no need of names to continue thusly.”

Seeking to make him laugh again, I take a page from Beatrice’s book, and allow my words to sharpen some. Razor wit may be a mite more dangerous in a man’s speech, but I know from experience that anything I say out of character will merely serve to surprise the recipient. It has been the topic of many a rant of my canny cousin’s over the years.

“If that be your name, sir, I fear that our company has come to a close.” I make to pull away, feigning surprise as he grasps my waist and hand more firmly. He smiles as he makes his reply.

“Walk you away now, Hero?”

“So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing, I am yours for the walk and especially when I walk away.”

“Yes, with me in your company.” I playfully bat his arm at his cheek.

“I may say so when I please.”

“And when please you it to say so?”

Oh! This does feel good— to be in a duel of wit and humor. Is this feeling here why Beatrice so often seeks the spotlight? If I had more confidence in my ability to maintain such conversation more frequently, I might be tempted to join her. Tempted, but not persuaded.

“When I like your favor, for God defend the lute should be like thy case.”

His smug smile tells me he is enjoying this. Good! All the women I have ever seen turn a conversation with pretty words and a nudging smile would surely beam with pleasure to see me able to entertain a prince, a wise one at that, if reports are telling.

He parries back: “My visor is Philemon’s roof. Within the house is Jove.”

“Why then, your visor should be thatched.” That does earn me another laugh, and he throws his head back with gusto, shoulders shaking with amusement.

“My lady, I knew you were beautiful, but now I know you are more clever than reporting suggests! Though I have had it first hand that your cousin Beatrice was the wit of the pair of you, I see now that you have more to you than meets the eye. Well done!” He chuckles again, and actually wipes a tear from the corner of his eye.

I blush and laugh along with him, glowing inwardly with his praise. His easy manor and kind words are flattery, but in his earnest mouth, they ring true, and I allow myself to relax as he turns me in a spin as the music demands. We are getting along far better than I had feared, perhaps a marriage to this man would not be so frightening after all.

But to leave Messina…

This brings me back to earth, with all the concerns I still have of this sudden match. I remind myself that one witty repartee does not guarantee a happy marriage. My reticence must show in my face, for Don Pedro sobers a bit.

“Have I offended you? I beg your pardon my lady Hero, I meant only to favor you in comparing you to thy cousin—”

“My lord, no!” I interrupt— oh dear, I’ve interrupted him. “You do honor me by the relation. My cousin is clever as she is fair. I am only quite warm. Crowds, you know.”

His worry softens to understanding. “Ah, I see. Allow me to escort you to a seat, where you may rest and we converse.” I was wondering when he might turn our jesting into the real conversation he intended me for. I nod and he offers me his arm, leading me to a bench near my mother’s rose bushes.

The music is not so loud here, and as I sit a gentle breeze graces the back of my neck and I realize that I was not being entirely untruthful just now. With all the bodies dancing and the heat of the day not yet entirely cooled off, it is undeniably hot amidst the crowd.

“Gentle Hero,” he begins after sitting next to me, an appropriate distance away, mindful of our surroundings. “I would— ah, but it would not do to speak of such things while still so veiled.” He removes his mask and sets it next to him on the bench. I see something akin to respect in his eyes at my lack of surprise at his identity.

“Though your company and dancing is most enjoyable, I must admit to you this is not the only purpose for which I have requested your company tonight.” Here he pauses again, assessing my response.

“I have some inkling as to what that purpose may be. But it is not for me to put words in the mouth of royalty.” I draw on my lifetime of presenting the perfect daughter, the perfect lady and don an expression— which I know from experience is my most respectful— of curiosity and gesture politely for him to carry on. Again, he nods, and I get the distinct impression he has made a new evaluation of me. I hope it lives up to his expectations, as well as my father’s.

“You speak kindly, my lady, though you need have no fear of me. I come to you this summer’s eve as a penitent before a judge to make a case on behalf of my friend.” This draws me up short. His friend? Could it be that my uncle was mistaken, then? Don Pedro takes my silence as permission to continue as I mentally trip over this revelation.

He holds up his hands as if defending himself or placating a spooked animal. “Allow me to avail you of a man who holds his love for you desperately, awaiting your thoughts on the union.

“His plight was brought to me reluctantly, for he does not wish to frighten you, most modest and fair Hero, with the force of his passion. Indeed, had it been to another and not I, who know how love looks in a man’s face that has not yet gained its certainty, to whom he confessed his feelings, you may yet have been unaware of his gentle affections.

“I must tell you before pressing on in my assurances of his love for you that I trust this man with my life. That he is well-worthy a jewel such as yourself is my ken. Thou knowest that my company arrives from battle. Your would-be lover did prove himself in action with the truest bravery and acts of valor, saving my life and those of dozens of other men, far beyond what even more seasoned warriors might show.

“Yet strength of body and acts of might are not all in which he is strong. Though he has known victory, he begged of me caution in asking you your hand. He would not that his liking seem too sudden, but here is where I cautioned him against such stringent precaution. What need the bridge much broader than the flood? The fairest grant is the necessity. But now I continue on!

“Though you may yet be unfamiliar with your love’s source, yet you have known him, or known of him for many years. Indeed, his devotion to you doth not spring up from the light of your beauty alone— though troth, he holds you the sweetest lady he ever looked on— but also from knowledge of your character and goodness hitherto.”

Butterflies seem to blossom near my heart at this. Here, I think, here is a man who does not want me solely for being a picture of beauty.
“Could this be?” I wonder aloud. Taking my response as encouragement, Don Pedro nods enthusiastically, grasping my hands in his.

“Most truthfully, yes! When our company went away he looked upon thee with a soldier’s eye, that liked but had a rougher task at hand. But now returned, fighting and roughness leave him and in their place come throngings of soft and delicate desires which all proclaim how fair and good thou, young Hero, art.

“Though I knew you not beyond fair telling before this night, I see now from our brief interaction that thou art a woman of wisdom and graciousness, as much as beauty and obedience. War has a way of making a man question where true value lies. Is such a man, noble in valor, kindest among his friends, and so venerating of your virtues, amorous to the point of despair without you, now not to be of your liking my lady?”

“I’faith my lord, nay. I think that, if I knew him— such a tale as this might persuade any woman to love him!” My head seems to be spinning, a rushing sound filling my ears. I can feel my blush hot upon my face and chest, and I know I must be the most flustered sight.

“Yet I wonder, that this man, concealed from me in identity he still is, does not come to ask me himself?”

“Ah, but in name only, good lady, for does this not reveal to you what his true character is? And is not a man’s character his truest identity beyond any name given by man or woman?”

I concede this point to him— the man Don Pedro speaks of seems to be unimpeachable in character, the very model of goodness. If his words are to be believed— and why would a prince lie? A man so honorable as this would surely also only keep the most worthy of companions. I think on the men of his company and must admit that each who is held close to the prince, even Benedick with his smart wit and sharp tongue, is as noble a man as I have met.

“I tell thee again, lady: his shyness in this suit comes but from his respect for you. He does not wish that you feel uncomfortable in your own home for the duration of our stay if he is rejected. And at this I add, does it not also speak to his consideration for you?”

I have always been somewhat cautious in developing little attachments to men who caught my eye. A combination of understanding of my position and responsibilities among my household and disappointment when I saw that they valued me more for my title and appearance than anything else led me to always temper any amorous inclination until I could see the true shape of things.

But oh, how the prince’s words move me! Surely, if my father were to hear this same tale from Don Pedro himself, such a match could not be to his disliking. And though the members of the prince’s entourage may be titled themselves, they would not be so tied away from Messina as the prince— and the prince’s wife— would be.

To have a man whose honor and duty are so commended by the prince himself for my partner, to care for my home, my family, and myself… and one who loves me with so brilliant a fashion, according to the honest prince.

“My lord, I would know the name of this man before I give my answer.”

“You are wise in your caution, for this I cannot fault you. It is the honorable Count Claudio.”

Chapter Text

"Could it be ... that the hero is one who is willing to set out, take the first step, shoulder something? Perhaps the hero is one who puts his foot upon a path not knowing what he may expect from life but in some way feeling in his bones that life expects something of him." — P.L. Travers

Count Claudio? Could this be true? I think to the moment this morning when our two groups greeted one another in the courtyard, his warm eyes meeting mine. At dinner when he blushed at my smile. Perhaps he wasn’t simply observing to observe, to assess his friend’s intended. If Don Pedro is to be believed— and he must, of course he must! Would Don Pedro, honest, good, kind Don Pedro lie about such a thing? No!— Claudio looked at me with his own intentions and heart in mind. My face flushes as I think of it.

“Ah, but I see this does not come entirely unwelcome to you, dear lady? The turn of your cheek would tell me otherwise.” I look up from my hands— when had I looked down?

“My lord,” I hesitate. How to say this? What to say? All my thoughts to this moment have been preparing to accept the prince’s hand, the prince’s offer, the prince’s heart. Now I am told it is not him who wishes to wed me but his friend? I do not know what to do with this. 

Count Claudio is a handsome young man, that is certain to anyone who may look with seeing eyes. Moreover, according to the prince’s inimitable word, he is kind, gentle, and filled with ardent love for me. I want to be flattered, to feel flutters of desire and admiration in turn, but I have not been in this position before— the position of being able to choose. My father made his opinion on the prince’s proposal quite clear: I was to accept him with all the grace and gentility I have been raised with. But this… this changes things. 

Where the prince has his own lands to manage, his own responsibilities, the young Count is titled only, his family estate belonging to his cousin. He would be free to make Messina his home. Nevertheless, he is not poorly off; no indeed, this war and his success at Don Pedro’s side have made him a wealthy man. Surely a man who could serve the prince’s cause so well, could also serve my people? 

And, if that is so, could it be that he would be good to me as well? I feel the beginnings of something bright begin to bloom in my chest. To think, a fiance I am not obliged to accept, the union blessed by His Majesty himself. My father had wanted a royal son-in-law, but surely he could not decline a match put forth by Don Pedro himself. Certainly, I think any proposition must be sweeter coming from his charming mouth. 

Married to Count Claudio . Claudio, with his eager yet shy smile, the prince’s kind words— which he must have at least in part from the Count himself— in his mouth. As I must believe Don Pedro’s words to be true, and I have heard naught but his praises in battle and duty for this past year, he is more than a good man. What’s more, he would be a husband free of the constant judging eyes of strangers and peers alike. To be free of ridicule.

I consider my own feelings. I have never looked ill upon Claudio, indeed I always found him to be quite handsome. The years before the war, he had been in my social circles enough to know that I liked his manner of speaking. The man he is now… he must be infinitely more attractive in qualities because he could be mine to choose. 

Mine to, perhaps, love.

With this in mind, I open my mouth to speak and continue where I broke off. “Good sir, I am most honored by this suit. Your words on behalf of your friend speak to me of the great love and respect you have for your fellows, as well as your belief in their veracity. I am wholly flattered But whatever it be that I would, I must defer to my father’s judgment in this. I can do nothing that will make him displeased.”

His smile in turn is kind. “You do speak wisdom, dear Hero. Let me break with your father in favor of this match. Will you accept its positive outcome?” As he speaks, an earnestness finds its way into his gaze, and I know that were I to say no now, that would be the end of it; he would bother me no more. I take in his kindness, his care for me and my wellbeing, notwithstanding his care for his friend, and make up my mind.

“I will.” His answering smile is so brilliant, the candles seem to dim next to it. Without another word, he squeezes my hand, kisses it, and is off to find my father. Though he has been nothing but gracious, the air seems lighter without his presence weighing down on me. 

The bench is blessedly cool under me as Don Pedro’s words sink into me. With his absence, the music seems to fade back into hearing. So consumed I have been with his words, I was unaware that it carried on. My mind turns back to the problem at hand. 

An engagement. Pending approval from my father, it is as good as done. A small smile finds its way to my lips. I sit with the feeling as the music and warmth swirl in gentle eddies in the summer evening breeze. 

Now that I do have a moment, it does strike me as odd that the Count should not bring his suit to me himself. 

Perhaps he was too shy to do so. I think on the prince’s words of his friend. It might be more likely that it was a mark of his humility, that he felt unequal to the task himself. But that doesn’t sit right exactly either. I turn the question over in my mind.

I believe a drink is in order , I think. Being proposed to on behalf of another by the very royal one you had been fearing anticipating a proposal from was very trying on the nerves, happy as the outcome may be. I stand, making my way back into the heart of the party. 

Delicious smells wash over me: cinnamon, bread, honey, wine. As I follow my nose and my stomach, I look around at the revelers. My uncle Antonio is dancing with Ursula, laughing and pinching her side as she playfully swats his hand away. More covering and intricate masks adorn the faces of many more people than not. Only those who are eating or conversing seem to be entirely without facial covering. My own mask is loosely held in my hand, nearly forgotten.

Reaching for a goblet, I hear my cousin’s familiar growl of indignation and look around for its source. Who could it possibly—

Beatrice is agitatedly conversing with a man in a ridiculously large mask and hat, who is currently speaking with an obviously fake accent. These parties always do lend themselves to mischief , I think with a smile. My cousin’s hands find her hips, shoulders thrown back in a familiar posture: that of a great lecturer speaking to a naughty pupil. Briefly I wonder if I should feel bad for the recipient of that gaze, but think better of it. Though the costumed man could be anybody, he is too suspiciously close in height to Signor Benedick, and he, having been so long from my cousins particular brand of charms, never could seem to resist an opportunity to needle her. I grin as she spins and walks away, leaving the unnamed man standing— assumedly, due to his mask— in shock.

Drink finished, I go to make my way back through the crowd towards my father when I am stopped by a hand in front of me, attached to a man bowing low to the ground.

“Might you do me the honor of this dance, my lady?” I follow his offered hand up to his face, which is hidden behind a red, bird (or devil)-like mask.  Though it only conceals part of his face, his mouth is alien and unfamiliar beneath the parody of a monster’s face. I glance about me. Surely I have a while longer before my presence is needed at my father and the prince’s side.

“You may, signor,” I give with a polite smile. He pulls me close and a sweeping tune begins as we sway and glide about the dance area.  

Where the prince was all grace and ease, this partner is exactness and precision. His steps are all correct, but lack the comfort of someone familiar with dancing. They are too-perfect, too-practiced, and beneath my hands I can feel he is tense, rigidly holding his position.

After a moment’s silence, I begin to talk. 

“As you do not give me the privilege of a face or a name to call you by, will you at least speak with me, that I may gather clues as to what manner of person hides behind the creature mask?” My words are teasing, but I am careful to keep my tone soft. I am all too familiar with feeling the intensity that required perfection can cause.

The man, who has been seeking to avoid my gaze and succeeding admirably thus far, looks at me at my words. His eyes are sharp and deep. They are not immediately recognizable to me, though they tug at something familiar in my mind. Where have I seen you before?

“I will speak whatever words you decide to hear of me lady,” he says, and though his words are meant to be teasing, charming, his voice is deep and unaffected. It is clear he does not intend to enjoy this. How odd. 

Nevertheless, I smile graciously at him. “How gallant, strange pilgrim. Tell me, do you migrate south to Messina as your visage’s namesake does, or are you familiar to this area?”

“Though the area is familiar to me, I am not familiar to it. I do not make my home here, if that is what you wish to uncover.” Again, his words are playful but his tone is wooden. Why would you ask me to dance when you so clearly wish to be elsewhere?  

His refusal to truly participate in the festivities tells me he is uncomfortable here. That, I can relate to. Though I play hostess more often than guest, I still understand the discomfiture that can come from unfamiliar surroundings, from familiar expectations. I determine I want to make this man smile. I will win him over. 

“Then you must be of the prince’s party! As the host’s daughter I bid you a most glad welcome. I hope you do not miss your home so much our hospitality feels grating to you,” I make an effort to meet his gaze, and as his eyes meet mine, I make sure to pour every ounce of understanding kindness into them. “I know those few times when I have been far away, even the most luxurious and loving of places can feel disagreeable.” 

This seems to be the wrong thing to say. “I have no need of your pity, nor your hospitality. I stand where I am, say what I can, and feel what I may wherever I am!” His volumed increased as he spoke, and he seems to realize it as he ends his sentence, immediately arranging himself into a more humble stance.

“Forgive me, lady, I misspoke. You must not hold a soldier so used to speaking plain to the roughness he puts forth. I am unused to polishing my words for others.” That, I can respect. How often have I wished my own words could be more unstudied, less careful, more free? All the time spent in Beatrice’s shining company, her witty and scathing words drawing laughs one minute and censure the next while I sat next to her, unscathed and unaffected by their consequences. How often have I wished for an occasion to speak as I may, to say “Father as it please me,” as Beatrice said so brief a time ago?

Do not fear, sir, you’ll have no reprimand from me. Were i in power to censure you, I would not. We do not chide the sea for its temper, only prepare to meet it with sails and gusts of our own.” I lean in slightly, or as much as one can lean when speaking to someone so much the taller. “I envy you your freedom.”

He gives a wry smirk at this. “You ‘envy me my freedom?’ Never did I think to hear irony such as that.” He laughs, and it is a rough, unfriendly sound. “Pay me no mind, Lady Hero. I mean nothing by it.”

Though I have successfully made him smile and laugh, which was more than I thought to be able to, it does not feel like a win. His laughter, his smile ring with a bitter sharpness, not the humor I am used to. Suddenly I feel very small, foolish for presuming to know what this man might think or feel. My time with Don Pedro gave me temporary confidence, and I, unlike my cousin, immediately toppled under its strength. I am not made for clever exchanges, I remind myself. Gentle, polite, kind, obedient, gracious, lovely , echo in my head in the voices of my father, my family, my servants, even Beatrice. 

You are meant for sweetness . 

The air on the dance floor seems insufficient of a sudden. 

“You will excuse me, my Lord, I am unwell,” as I move to leave he grasps my arm tightly. A small gasp escapes my lips and I look between him and my captive hand. He relaxes his grip on me quickly, but does not let go. 

“Allow me to escort you to a seat. You must be very tired, my lady.” We walk over to the same bench upon which I had spoken with Don Pedro not fifteen minutes ago. I sit. The stranger remains standing.

I expected him to leave, but as he continues to stand before me, silent and intimidating, I clear my throat nervously. What is happening? I raise my eyebrows at him questioningly, as close to an outright challenge as I dare. 

“Lady Hero, the reason I sought to interrupt your evening was to warn you.” That brings me up short. Warn me? Of what? My concern must show on my face, for he quickly adds. “It is not immediate danger of your physical wellbeing, but rather that of your emotional.” I am only becoming more confused as this still-masked man continues to speak.

I gesture for him to carry on. 

“I am made aware of your pending engagement to the most exquisite and honorable Count Claudio,” here he seems to pause, giving me time to process what he has said before continuing. “My lady, I would have you know what none other are willing to tell you.” 

Who is this man that speaks to me so? A warning of Count Claudio? Of what kind? 

“You may have heard tell of his heroics in battle; I know his praises are widely spread. The duties all soldiers perform on the battlefield are grim necessities, dreadfully undertaken. Even so, many good men may still serve nobly in this office.” Another pause, and I can tell he is watching me carefully for my reaction. 

“Count Claudio is no such man.” My eyes widen and I cannot help the gasp that escapes me. Such accusations! What is— How is—?

“I have seen him in the midst of battle, a bloody grin splitting his venerated face as he commits acts of a lion in the likeness of a lamb. I have watched as skirmish after skirmish ended, with him numbered among the victors, bloodiest and most-gratified of all, glorying in the destruction he has caused.

“I have watched him dispatch men with glee, seeming to relish the violent task most men would dread to undertake.” I do not know what to do with myself, I am not aware what look sits upon my face. In this moment I am unpracticed and unguarded as I have not been since young childhood. 

“Lady Hero, there are some men who seem gentle and pure as a mountain stream in polite company, but who revel in the gore of a battlefield as these people revel in music and wine this night.” As he says this, he looks me dead in the eyes. 

As we have conversed, both dancing and sitting, I have observed three things. One: that this man abhors the duty put upon him by society, polite company. He has completed his role in manners and speech in the barest exactness of requirements, with obvious lack of depth or feeling. Two: he seems to be incapable of performing any kindness he does not truly feel. Three: as he is telling me this, he seems to be only telling the truth.

But how could this be? Surely, if it is true, it could be some great misunderstanding. Elsewise, he may be a man jealous of Count Claudio’s success in rising so quickly among the ranks of the prince. A person could see a great many things they believe to be real when they expect to. It could be a misinterpretation of things he has observed. 

It could be true. 

But I cannot believe it. And, provided that the most horrible truth come to pass, who is this man, that I should trust his word over Don Pedro, who has been so kind to my family, who has been so long a friend of my father’s. He would not tie us to a man so unworthy. 

“A man who glories in violence cannot be fit to be husband to one so gentle as you.”

No, in this I am sure there has been some mistake. My grip on my mask is white-knuckled.

I begin my reply slowly, carefully choosing my words to make my meaning most clear. “These things would be grave indeed, were they true. Yet how may I know I can trust them? How do you yourself know them?” I see him open his mouth, but I continue to speak, determined now to get my words through, to be heard, to be right . 

“But even were it so, does God not excuse those actions soldiers commit in the name of defending the places and people that they love? It is not sinful to go to war in defense of your homeland, of your brethren. The prince himself fought in this conflict, my own uncle and father have fought in times long past, yet they are good still.”

The unnamed man’s jaw clenches. “I do not tell you this to trifle with your feelings, lady. You have heard he is good and noble and worthy. I know him to be a jealous man dangerously possessive of that which he feels is his, who is quick to anger and fast to accuse!” 

“I do not believe that the prince would be so deceived in a man he considers to be so close a friend.” 

His voice is in full anger now. “Count Claudio is hardly more than the Prince’s Lapdog! He is a pet as sure as Signor Benedick is his clown; honored today but may fall tomorrow. I tell you, he is not the man he is said to be, and if you refuse to listen, you are as naive as you are said to be!”

That was enough. In his accusation of Claudio being nothing more than the prince’s lapdog, I see the root of the affair here: this man harbors dislike and jealousy for the count. How he came by the knowledge of the Count’s proposal by proxy, I do not know— I would guess it must not be a great secret among the prince’s men. 

But for this man to make harsh and grave accusations, and with concealed identity to dispute Don Pedro’s assurances, thereby impugning his honor as well, to raise his voice to me, and on top of all that, accuse me of being naive. Childish, foolish, weak . My mask falls to the ground as I stand up.

“Sir, I thank you for your concern. Your worry does you credit. You have spoken your piece, and now I shall speak mine. 

“Don Pedro and his company are guests in my household. Such accusations I might believe of a lower soldier, but of the prince’s own particular friend, who has been in company with not only His Highness but Signor Benedick of Padua, who though fickle and silly in his words at times I know to be a good-hearted man, I cannot believe. 

“You are welcome in my father’s house as one of the Prince’s guests, and for that I owe you the duty of a host. That being done, I bid you good night and wish you a better evening than you have for me. I will not tolerate slander against any of my guests.” I give the shallowest of curtseys and begin to brush past him, but he seizes upon my hand once again.

“Very well. You have my apologies, lady. I meant only to offer counsel I feared none other would see fit to tell you .” And before I can stop him he bends, kisses my hand, turns and is gone before I can say another word. 

I stare shocked, open-mouthed for a moment, then two, processing the bizarre, infuriating, concerning, insulting conversation I have just had. 

I take a deep, steadying breath in. I was careless at the end there; I allowed my feelings to get the better of me, I spoke harshly and without censure. I must not do that again. Bending, I pick up my mask to where it had fallen. Holding it up to the light, I see it has become chipped in the fall. A shame . I lament the loss of the pretty thing.

As I walk once more into the welcoming arms of the crowd, I brush the back of my hand with a fingertip, ghosting across where the stranger had kissed me. His mouth heavy from anger, lips incongruously soft to the words he had just spoken, his eyes, angry and piercing. Funny, in almost the same place and manner as…

And at once it hits me. The man who just denounced Count Claudio to me, who questioned Don Pedro’s judgment, who insulted me to my face, was the prince’s own brother, Don John. What was it the servants called him, in loud guffaws then hushed whispers as I entered the room? John the Bastard . 

Perhaps the prince and his brother are not so reconciled as they would have us think. 

Contemplating what I have learned, I turn to seek out my father, duty again pulling me into action. Trying my best to sweep away the lingering feeling of unease. 

Chapter Text

“People are not born heroes or villains; they’re created by the people around them.” – Chris Colfer

Still perturbed by the conversation with Don John, I stare through the crowd for a minute, not really comprehending anything or anyone in my way. 

Words echo in my mind, spinning around me, making me dizzy.

“I trust this man with my life.”

“I would have you know what none other are willing to tell you.”

“...did prove himself in action with the truest bravery and acts of valor,”

“I have watched him dispatch men with glee, seeming to relish the violent task most men would dread to undertake…”

“Is such a man, noble in valor, kindest among his friends, and so venerating of your virtues, amorous to the point of despair without you, now not to be of your liking my lady?”

“Count Claudio is no such man.”

My head. I squeeze my eyes shut, rubbing my temples as the air around me seems to vanish. There is a tightness in my chest I am all too familiar with— a portent of what my father so affectionately calls my ‘fainting spells.’

What started out as a lovely evening has become strange and stressful beyond what I could have imagined this morning. 

He seems to be a good man. I have heard him praised by princes and counts alike. My father likes him. Signor Benedick trusts him, and he is famously loathe to spend time with any he deems unworthy. 

But what is worthy to a man and what is worthy to a woman are different things, are they not? Could it be that both are true, that Count Claudio— sweet, polite, handsome, Claudio— is both noble and not? Both giving and jealous, kind and cruel, honorable and angry? Can any traits exist in the same person at the same time? 

No. It must not be. I know Don Pedro is honest and good; he has been known to my family and I my whole life. I trust that his judgments are sound. Don John is an angry man who has lost much in a short amount of time. It makes sense he would lash out, try to prevent something happy for anyone else, but especially a happy something his brother has a hand in organizing. 

My choice stands. 

I inhale deep and slow, counting in and out as Ursula taught me to do when I feel a spell coming on. Shake the cobwebs of distress from me. I open my eyes and look around. 

“Lady Hero!” I turn towards the sound of my name to see the Prince himself beckoning me over to where he stands with my father, uncle, and Signor Benedick. The crowd is closely packed and hot as I make my way across the courtyard to them, bumping into more than one masked person as I go. 

“My Lord,” I say, curtsying to the Prince. “My father.” I press a kiss to his beaming cheek. He grasps my hands in his own and holds me at arms’ length. 

“Though it is not the match I had anticipated,” here he looks pointedly at Don Pedro, who merely laughs, “we are brought great honor in it. His highness tells me you have given your consent pending my approval?” I nod. Benedick makes a show of groaning and hanging his head in his hands. 

“Well, I heartily give it! You do make me proud , Hero. I knew you could not be so lovely to do nothing of import for your family.” I feel my cheeks redden at his praise, and a glow deep in my chest. I push down the strangely shame-like emotion that comes with the second half of his words. He is proud of me, and I got to choose for myself . It is almost too much. I know my eyes are glistening as I beam back up at him. 

Don Pedro claps him on the shoulder. “Fine, fine! A fine ending to a short intrigue. Now, where is the groom? We must tell him his suit is welcomed.” 

“Is it fine though?” Benedick interrupts, his tone petulant and warning of humor not all will appreciate. “Wedded bliss is all flowers and sunsets and kisses for the elderly; but while we are young it is a waste of life! Surely there will be plenty of time to wed once we are all dead and in the ground.” 

Father frowns at him, while my uncle guffaws. I must stifle my own smile. He is not correct, but he is amusing. And predictable. 

“Signor, if you will not make yourself merry, at least make yourself useful and go and find Count Claudio for his bride.”

“Nay, you have the truth of it. I will not make myself marry, and I’ll turn silver with age before I do, but I will go and gather the blissfully condemned.” He goes, leaving us all tittering in his wake. 

“He speaks such nonsense sometimes,” says Antonio. 

“It is nonsense, but I fear he believes it to be true in the moment,” Don Pedro sighs, then looks excitedly at the crowd behind me. I turn to see it is my cousin who holds his attention, looking more frazzled and upset than when I had last seen her. Benedick must have said something worse than usual . He does seem to be in top terrible form this evening. 

This does not seem to lessen her in the eyes of the prince however, who greets her with an enthusiasm belying the occasion. “How now, Beatrice? You seem displeased.”

She snorts— and though I know my father disapproves next to me, for snorting is not ladylike, I admire her all the more for it. After all, she is a lady. If she does something, it must follow that the action can only be ladylike. “ Displeased , indeed. Disaffected, discontented, and most ill-used. Do you know what Signor Benedick,” she practically spat his name, “has said of me, which I heard not from his own lips but from a stranger? ” 

“I do not. Will you tell it me?”

“He has— urgh , it does not bear repeating! Suffice it to say it was childish, and conceited, and arrogant, and rude. Unacceptable!” She stamps her foot, reminiscent of a horse, but calms. I see her push down her anger and smile instead. “My lord, will you not call your faithful lackey in? As he is a soldier I demand a soldier’s satisfaction; as our sovereign and his commander, I petition you for its deliverance.”

Each of the men laughs at this, Don Pedro even harder than the others.

“Lady, if you tell me his offense, I may be able to exact some justice for you, but until that point I am unmoved by your tears.” She scoffs and shoves his shoulder playfully. No one but she could get away with such things. 

It is at this moment Signor Benedick comes tromping into our circle, a sour and bemused expression on his face. His look does not improve on seeing my cousin’s brow arching at his unannounced presence. 

Don Pedro steps in before either can come to blows. “Now, signior, where’s the Count? Did you see him?”

Benedick scoffs. “Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame. I found him here as melancholy as a lodge in a warren. I told him, and I think I told him true, that your Grace had got the goodwill of this young lady, and I offered him my company to a willow tree, either to make him a garland, as being forsaken, or to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be whipped.”

The Prince looks as if he is torn between being amused and embarrassed by his friend’s cavalier words. In practice, he looks rather ill.

“As you will not take up arms in my defence, my lord,” Beatrice cuts in, “I suppose I shall away to fetch the blushing groom.” She turns, pointedly ignoring Signor Benedick. Her skirts swirl about her, giving her appearance an air of dignified outrage as she sweeps into the crowd.

I look to Don Pedro and note that he too is watching my cousin disappear into the throng like a righteous messenger, but with something more akin to admiration in his gaze than the affection in mine.  

Don Pedro tears his eyes away from my cousin then, and looks at me. “Are you ready?”

My cheeks flush as I look down. “I’ faith, my lord, I am somewhat nervous.” 

He laughs kindly and chucks me under the chin, tilting my face up to his. “Dear girl, you have nothing to fear. I’ll wager good money that when Claudio hears the turn of fortune’s tides in his favor he’ll near burst for joy. He has done more for less in the past,” he says fondly.

Hearing this lifts my spirits and calms my nerves somewhat, but before I can ask more about my husband-to-be, Signor Benedick chimes in, apparently unaware that another conversation was taking place.

“...unfounded entirely!” He says, apparently quite disgruntled, to my helpless looking father and uncle. 

“The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you. The gentleman that danced with her told her she is much wronged by you,” Don Pedro says.

Benedick splutters. “Wh- me?! It is she who has misused me past the endurance of a block! Oh, She told me, not thinking I had been myself, that I was the Prince’s jester, that I was duller than a great thaw, huddling jest upon jest with such impossible conveyance upon me that I stood like a man at a mark with a whole army shooting at me. Can you imagine? I ask you!”

None of us seem able to respond to him properly, each subduing laughter at his expense. 

“Ah, but here she comes!” He exclaims, somehow louder, throwing an arm in the air. 

My eyebrows raise and I follow to where his gaze has moved, butterflies suddenly making themselves known in my chest. Sure enough, winding through the crowd, pulled by Beatrice, is Count Claudio. He is to be my husband .

“Please,” Benedick prostrates himself on the ground before Don Pedro, dramatically grasping his hand between his. “Send me on any errand, bid me fulfill any wish to take me away from here.”

“I have none but to desire your continued company,” his majesty says, a smile broad on his lips. 

With a cry that I think must be mostly intended for our amusement, he hurls himself away from the group, narrowly avoiding knocking into Beatrice and Count Claudio both.

My eyes move to me almost-fiancé. I take him in, his long coat shed in the heat of the evening leaving him in just his shirt and trousers, his chiseled features more angular and becoming under the glow of the candles. Let him be a handsome fellow, cousin , Beatrice had said only an hour earlier. 

I think we shall both be pleased in this. 

But… he’s not looking at me. I try to catch his eye as they walk closer, but it almost seems he is deliberately avoiding looking my way. The only one he does look at for a moment is Don Pedro, and it’s an expression that doesn’t seem to fit with what I had anticipated. 

He doesn’t look happy at all. He looks upset.

I am not the only one to notice it.

“Why how now Count, wherefore are you sad?”

His reply is gruff, just barely the right side of respectful. “Not sad, my lord.” He still has not looked at me once. I try to catch his eye but his gaze remains firmly above Don Pedro’s head. Look at me .

“How, then, sick?”

“Neither, my lord.” His fine jaw is clenched as he speaks, resolutely avoiding anyone’s eyes. Allow me to avail you of a man who holds his love for you desperately, Don Pedro had said. The words seemed sweet and promising; this is the man who felt such?

Beatrice breaks in. “The Count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well. b\But civil count, civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion.” 

Don Pedro’s expression shifts to one of understanding. “I’ faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true, though I’ll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is false.—Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and fair Hero is won. I have broke with her father and his goodwill obtained. Name the day of marriage, and God give thee joy.”

Father steps forward, shoulders proudly set. “Count, take of me my daughter, and with her

my fortunes. His Grace hath made the match, and all grace say “Amen” to it.”

Count Claudio’s face changes slowly, like the dawn cresting the horizon, as he looks to his Prince, then my father, and finally, finally me. Butterflies take flight in my stomach as our eyes meet again and yes , there’s the man I have heard tell of. This is the man whose eyes seemed as light as the stars this morning, who blushed in my sight at dinner. This is a man I can believe is in love with me. 

His full lips part and he gazes in apparent continued wonder. I must look no better, for I can feel the heat rising to my face, the strange sensation of my heart trying to escape my ribs rearing inside me. 

“Speak Count,” Beatrice’s amused, exasperated tone is as familiar to me as my home. “Tis your cue.”

I see Count Claudio swallow as he steps cautiously toward me, as if one false move might shatter the reality he dreamt up. His hand trembles, ever so slightly, as he takes my hand delicately in his. Goosebumps erupt up my arms as he trails rough fingertips softly over the back of my hand, turning it over and mapping out my palm with equal care. I am breathless as I study his face: he’s looking at my hand in his wondrously, as if he cannot believe it. 

My heart skips in my chest as he tips his gaze up to meet mine, fingers still caressing my hand. 

“Silence,” he breathes, and his voice is stronger on his next words, “is the perfectest herald of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.”

His fingers cease their drawing as he grasps my hand firmly between both of his. My hand is swallowed in his, and I marvel at how warm, how safe, they feel. 

“Lady, as you are mine, I am yours. I give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange.” Slowly, tremulously, he smiles at me. What can I do but smile back?

Distantly, I am aware of the party carrying on around us, the voices of my family and honored guests cheering and saying things, but I don’t mark any of their words; all at once, my ears are but made to hear his gentle praises and declarations of love. I float within my own body, vibrating with the warmth of his stare, his hands around mine, the promise of our future together. 

There are hoots and whistles as he raises my hand to his lips and kisses the knuckles there without breaking eye contact, and I didn’t think I could blush more, but my face grows somehow hotter. His beautiful eyes sparkle with something unfamiliar and exciting.

We go about the rest of the night side by side, my arm tucked into his. We— for we shall be a unit now, tied as a ‘we’ until distant death— accept congratulations from neighbors and soldiers alike, we endure the gentle ribbing of our friends, we exchange pleasantries with my family. So occupied with receiving well-wishes that we do not get the opportunity to dance together, and my heart saddens a moment, before I brush away the notion. We shall have the rest of our lives together to dance. 

As he holds me gently to his side, I revel in the feeling of touching someone for the first time, for truly, I’ve never held hands with anyone other than Beatrice or Ursula, and those were in far different contexts. While we walk around the courtyard, thoughts of before bounce between my excitement and the novelty of being engaged.

“I know you will not disappoint me.”

“Wanting to be happy is not selfish.”

“You do make me proud.”

I have the prince’s approval, the security of my home and its inhabitants assured, the approbation of my father, and the warmest, most tender gaze from this man who I am to marry. Everyone is pleased with me and no one is disappointed. 

I think this warmth bursting inside of me must be happiness. 

“I know him to be a jealous man dangerously possessive of that which he feels is his, who is quick to anger and fast to accuse.”

I push those words aside and lean more firmly into my fiance’s side. He smiles at me and I feel giddy as I smile back at him.