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Chapter Text

— fire cracks along his bones, shadows flame across his vision, cornflower skies wither to ash, around him there is shouting, someone screams, the ocean crashes overhead —

…thump…

…thump…

…thump…

— the tide washes out...

Sound like sea and shingle roars in his ears — ebbing into a muted heartbeat. His lashes flutter, remembering how to open, and his gaze focuses on the plaster ceiling above. His bleary eyes rove, tracing the speckled constellations that mark its age.

A soft breath alerts him to another's presence. "You are awake."

He turns — a thousand needles spear his skull — and grunts, gritting his teeth as his vision dissolves in spots of black and indigo. When it refocuses, the pain dulled but not disappeared, he finds himself staring into the face of a girl with hazel eyes and raven locks.

Something pings in the recesses of his mind, dissonant with his throbbing skull.

"Who…" his mouth is a desert, the air scrapes through his lungs, lacerating his throat, and he coughs.

"Here," the girl lifts a cup from the bedside table, water splashing over the rim in her clumsy grasp.

He shifts, meaning to help, but again pain spasms through his skull and the world tilts. Cold presses against his lips, water trickling down his throat and chin. He sighs at the cool relief, not minding that half of it soaks his front.

The girl withdraws the cup. "Do you need more?"

"No…" He shakes his head, grimacing when his vision spots. "...thank you."

At least his voice no longer feels like broken glass. He pushes himself as far up the bed as he can manage, clenching his jaw against the nausea which threatens to overpower him.

The girl watches his struggle. "Do you need another pillow? Should I fetch Mamma?"

He clutches his brow; his head throbs like a whetstone someone has chosen to sharpen their axe on.

"...what… what happened?"

"You fell and hit your head."

That explains it.

He glances around the room, both strange and familiar. "Where… where am I?"

"In bed," the girl chirps, as if he has not deduced that for himself. "You have been sleeping for two days! That is far longer than I am ever allowed. Mamma said not to disturb you. But you are awake now."

He frowns, noticing the window, its shutters open to reveal lavender cloud. He tries to recall where he is and how he came to be here but it is like thrusting his hand into a thornbush to snare a hare. No matter how far he reaches, all he gets is scratches.

His pulse hammers in his throat, skin prickling.

"I left Dogberry with you, so you would not be lonely." The girl indicates a ragtag creature made of cloth, which he had not noticed, nuzzled in his armpit. He supposes it could pass for a dog — or a rabbit. "Mamma has been here a lot — and the doctor — but she had to tend to Leo who is making a fuss because he thinks he killed you."

She rolls her eyes and he does not know what startles him more, the familiarity of the gesture or the fondness it stirs in his chest.

Who are you, he wants to demand. Who is Leo?

"I am not dead," he says instead and maybe there is a flicker of pride in that. Whoever this Leo is, he has not killed him. Don John lives on.

"Of course not! It was just a bump. I told Leo to stop snivelling but he only cried harder and then Mamma shooed me from the room so I came to check on you and it is good that I did because you are awake!"

He reassesses the age of his adversary. "Why does Leo believe he killed me?"

"Leo climbed the big tree, even though he was told not to. Then he got stuck and started wailing so you climbed up to rescue him. Which you did, but then on your way down a branch broke and you fell and you have been sleeping ever since."

He brushes his head, feeling the proof in the coarse bandages. He remembers none of this, mind aswirl with murky waters. Why would he help a stranger?

"They carried you back to the house and the doctor came and did those. Mamma said you needed rest, but I told her if she gave you true love's kiss you would wake! I guess it is slow working. But you are awake now, so you can play Princess Court with me like you promised."

She smiles at him, beseeching. John's brain is slow processing this bludgeon of information. His stomach jolts as her words click together — true love's kiss?!

He shifts forward, grimacing through the pricks of pain. "Who is your mother?"

Her face wrinkles with confusion. Before she can answer there comes a wearied sigh from the doorway, "Clarissa, I told you not to go in here."

It is that name more than the voice, which freezes him. It has been years — a lifetime — since he heard it spoken, plucking a sharp chord on his heartstrings.

"But LOOK! He's awake!"

The figure stiffens, eyes flying to him. "John?"

Her voice quivers, another pang in his chest. The candles have not been lit; he sees her only through the fading glow of the sunset. And yet, he knows her — like a lightning strike, scorching him from the inside out.

A killer should know their victim.

"Hero," the name falls like lead from his tongue.

She staggers forward. "Clarissa, find Ursula. Have her summon the doctor."

"But I want to staaayyy."

Not taking her eyes off John, Hero's voice strengthens with command, though there lingers a note of exhaustion. "Please, Clarissa."

The girl huffs.

"We'll play later," she assures him and scurries from the room.

Hero's shoulders slump and she tucks behind her ear a stray curl that has escaped her bun. He has never seen her with her hair up; it matures her, though still lovely.

"How do you feel?" She floats towards him, white skirts fluttering. He does not know what face he makes but the phantom falters. "John?"

No one says his name like that — warm and precious and familiar.

"Is this Hell?"

She turns to marble. "Why — why would you ask that?"

"Because… I killed you."

She sucks in a breath and rushes to his bedside. "Oh, my love. You have been dreaming."

She reaches out with milk fingers — he flinches — their warmth feathers across his cheek. Her voice a gentle mantra, "I am here, I promise. I am alive and we have a life together. Remember, John, the Friar's trick."

He remembers —

— fleeing to the port, feet light with the success of his scheme. Then, iron chains clamped upon him, flanked by Don Pedro's men, and — No! He would not go back! NO! Not back under his brother's thumb! — but then they told him of the lady's death and the fight rotted inside him. They hauled a shell back to the villa to witness the count's farce of a wedding, to the same blood he carelessly spilt — they spilt. But this proved another trick and the resurrected Hero stood before them, rose dusting her cheeks as she pardoned Claudio and proclaimed her maidenhood to the world. And then, his brother's grave stare falling on him. Benedick's promise of brave punishments —

Is this one of them? Is Hero to be his undoing as he was hers?

Now he understands why the room is familiar, it is the same build as the chambers given to them at Leonato's home. Are Pedro and Benedick lurking outside the door, sniggering at his expense? Is Claudio?

He snarls, baring his teeth, "Where is he?"

Hero's hand withdraws. "Who? The doctor?"

"Claudio. Your husband."

"My — my husband? Is this — a jest?" Her gaze snags on his bandaged head and she blanches. "John, what is the last thing you remember?"

His heart thunders in his ears. "Whatever game you are playing—"

"Claudio is not here, and he is not my husband, but you have cracked your skull so I need you to tell me what is the last thing you remember?"

The swan is graceful but its bite is fierce. The force of her words surprise him and he answers, "The wedding."

The sheets bunch in her fists. "Which wedding?"

"Your wedding. To Claudio. The second one."

"My—" She reels back, face stricken. "John — there was no second wedding. I mean — there was but — but that was a ruse — I never — I never married Claudio, and besides, that was—"

She cuts off, trembling. His gaze narrows, a tremor passing through his hands.

"That was what?" Her knuckles have gone as white as her face. Alarms seizes him. "Hero? What is it? Hero."

She shudders, choking on a sob, "That was — that was — ten years ago."

He stills. "Get out."

"John—"

"Get. Out." His voice hisses like the swing of a knife and he lurches upright, dark vines writhing at the corners of his vision. "For your sake."

He has never struck a woman, but this jest of Claudio's, of Pedro's —

He does not trust himself.

Hero regards him, her face softening. "You would never hurt me, John."

She sounds so sure, so trusting. His blood boils, skin melting to bone. It feels as if his skull might erupt. "I killed you, Hero."

Sadness sweeps across her countenance, her fingers extending towards him once again. He recoils and her hands curl at her sides. "Oh John… you brought me back to life."

As she speaks she tilts her chin, almost defiant. He grinds his jaw, scouring her face for the lie but can find none. She is as guileless as ever. Yet none of this can be true. Ten years cannot have passed.

He squeezes his eyes shut. "This cannot be, this cannot be. Be it a trick or I am dreaming — or even dead. But this cannot be true."

When he opens his eyes Hero is still there, watching him, a pensive expression clouding her fine features.

"The Cat in the Boots — it was your favourite tale as a child. You would plead with your mother over and over to tell it again and each time she would embellish it with some new feat of cleverness. You adored it. The belief that with enough cunning — and a dash of ruthlessness — one could change their fate."

Her words wash over him like seasalt through the cracks in his armour. She speaks true, but — the memories of his mother, those precious few moments of happiness in his childhood, he guards like a dragon does its hoard. He has never shared them with anyone, will not sharpen other's swords for them.

"All you have done is prove this some mad dream."

Her mouth curves, a faint twinkle in her eyes. "You dream of me, John?"

His brain heats. He must be delirious, the lady he knew was as delicate and demure as a white rose. This woman bursts with the vivid technicolour of a field of wildflowers.

Or is he forgetting that roses have thorns?

Before he can scramble a response the door opens and in walks a man in a suit and glasses. "Ah, I see the patient is awake."

Hero whirls to him. "Please, Doctor. He talks as if the last ten years never happened."

The doctor stops short, brow crinkling. "I see… well… some disorientation is not unusual with these sorts of injuries. If I may, I would like to speak with — and, uh — examine the patient myself."

"Of course," Hero acquiesces before John can protest. She looks at him, her face softening. "The doctor will help you. I shall request some food be brought up. You must be hungry."

John wants to object — if only for the sake of objecting — but the mention of food has his traitor stomach rumbling. He scowls, sullen and silent, and watches as Hero sweeps from the room, resisting the inexplicable urge to call her back.

"Your wife is very charming," the doctor declares in jovial tones.

John's head whips to him. "My what?"

:-x-:

Hero shuts the door, clenching the handle tight so her hand does not shake, the brass pattern indenting into her palm. She heaves a breath, righting herself, and, one-by-one, pries her fingers from the handle.

She walks the familiar path of the corridor. Around her, the walls stretch and fold, the floorboards threatening to fall out from under her. She hears voices from Clarissa's room and stumbles against the open door, peeking inside. Her daughter bounces on the bed while Ursula urges her to calm.

"Please, princess—"

"I DON'T WANT TO GO TO BED! I WANT TO SEE PAPÀ!"

"Clarissa, sssshhh!" Hero enters the room, a finger pressed to her lips. "Your brothers are sleeping."

Clarissa's knees hit the mattress. "Mamma! Can I see Papà now?"

She shakes her head. "Papà is very tired."

"But he's been asleep for two whole daayyysss!"

Ignoring her daughter's pout, Hero turns to the serving woman. "Ursula, please instruct the kitchen to prepare some food and bring it to the lord's bedroom."

Ursula nods and slips from the room. Hero faces her daughter who is sitting with her arms crossed. "I want to see Papà."

"Not tonight, darling. The sun has gone to bed and so must you."

"But—"

"Ah, ah," Hero waggles a finger and taps her daughter's nose. "The sooner you sleep, the sooner morning comes and you can see your papà."

Not that she is sure John will be up to receiving visitors tomorrow. But she cannot think on that now.

Clarissa sighs as if it is a great burden, "Fiiinnneee. But I want a story first."

Hero laughs, her daughter ever the opportunist. She settles in the chair beside the bed. "Of course, princess. What sort of story would you like?"

"Puss'n'Boots!" Clarissa exclaims, previous peevishness vanishing at the prospect of her favourite bedtime tale.

Hero's smile falters and she sucks in a breath, steadying her voice. "As you wish. Once upon a time there was a poor, old miller who had three sons…"

Chapter Text

The doctor explains the blow to his head has impacted his memories, misplacing ten years of his life. John listens to this diagnosis but does not give it credit until after the doctor leaves and she enters.

"Your supper, my lord." The serving woman sets the tray on the bedside table and refills his cup. "There is a portion for the lady too. Please ensure she eats, she has had no appetite since your accident."

It takes a moment to place her, face illuminating as she lights the candles. He spared her little notice before but he is certain the crow's feet are new as well as the silver streaks amidst those mouse-brown curls. He knows stress steals youth but she did not appear so affected when he glimpsed her last. However, he is sure this is the same woman.

"Margaret?"

She glances at him, not a hint of loathing in those storm blue eyes. "Is there something you need, my lord?"

She does not balk or scream. Nor does she smash the water jug over his head. Her voice is polite and sincere, a servant addressing her master.

"No… carry on."

"Thank you, my lord." If she thinks his behavior strange she is clever enough not to show it. On her way out, she pauses. "The whole household is relieved to hear you have awakened, sir."

John gives the barest nod of acknowledgement and she exits the room. He collapses against the pillow, staring at the plaster ceiling and the wooden beams running through. Has he really lost ten years? But this cannot be his future. It cannot be.

He realises he is fiddling with something and glances at his hand, finding a gold band around his fourth finger. Ice scrapes down his spine. It cannot be…

It is an effort to remove, the fit is firm, but he slips the ring over his knuckle —

Wrongness slams into him, like peeling skin from bone. He jams the ring back on his finger, exhaling hard. He stares at the band, glinting in the candlelight. Can he truly be married? And to Hero.

He does not know how much time passes in dazed wondering. A hand brushes his shoulder and he starts, finding Hero beside him.

"You should eat."

Her voice is achingly gentle. More of her bun has come loose, sable curls cascading around her neck. Now he is looking, he sees she has shed those last girlish traces, a woman in full-bloom.

"If you eat with me."

Light flickers across her face, the shadow of a smile. She pulls a chair next to the bed, picking up a spoon and bowl from the tray. A pointed look has him doing the same. The broth is warm, if not hot. Questions burn on his tongue, even as he spoons more of the stew into his mouth. His peers used to sneer at his silence but John knows what a careless word can reveal. He waits for others to fill the silence, to show their hands, dissecting all that is and is not said before he utters a word. It is not a difficult feat in the present moment when his stomach outweighs his curiosity.

"The doctor — the doctor spoke to me on his way out," Hero says. "He told me — told me about your—" she sucks in a breath, spoon clinking against the bowl as her hand shakes, "—about your memories."

He regards her. As sceptical as he is, he cannot deny the evidence of time's passing in both Hero and Margaret's features. He wonders about his own face and fights the urge to ask for a mirror. Instead, he sets his bowl aside and meets her gaze.

"Of anyone, you most deserve your revenge against me. But… if you swear this is no trick, I will… trust you."

She leans forward, "I give you my word this is no trick. I swear I will not lie to you."

He sets his jaw. He would be a worse villain than he has already proven himself if he doubts her now. If it were anyone else he would laugh in their face, but this is Hero, sweet and honest Hero — any stain on her honour is one he left himself. The least he owes her is trust.

He frowns at his hands, flexing his fingers. (If he peers close enough will he find flecks of her blood?)

He sighs, raising a hand to his bandaged head. "Then a better diagnosis would be madness for none of this can be true."

She hands him a bread roll. "What is it that you find so fantastical?"

He tears it in half, offering the bigger piece to her. "The doctor called you my wife."

She lifts her hand, showing off the gold ring, kin to his own. "Yes, we have been married for eight years."

Eight years.

"How—" His thoughts careen to the child from before and cold seeps into his blood. "That girl—"

Dark curls and hazel eyes. But it was not Hero he glimpsed in her — though their resemblance is irrefutable — it was his mother.

Hero watches him piece it together.

"Clarissa was my mother's name."

She nods. "We named our daughter after her. She is six, not far from seven."

All the breath leaves him. "We have a child."

Hero fidgets with the bread, wringing crumbs into her lap. "We have three. Clarissa, Leonato, and Antonio. We call them Leo and Tonio to avoid confusion."

It is a rare thing that can knock John off guard. Even waking without his memories is just another situation to which he must adapt. But this —

He is certain his eyes are bulging out of his skull. "H-How?"

A smile slinks across her lips. "I do not have to explain that to you, do I?"

He lurches into the headboard, his mind filling with images of rose-blush and peach skin beneath his fingers, limbs entangling and divine heat — he shoves those thoughts into a locked box, sweat collecting on his brow. Hero is still smiling. She promised no tricks but this has to be a jest.

And yet… that girl… Clarissa…

His voice creaks around splintered glass, "You could not."

"Three children, John."

There again — his name in her mouth. That spit of letters, common and plain. None of the poetry of Pedro or Claudio. But she makes it sound like it is everything — sun, moon, sky — as if all the world is held in that one name.

John.

"Hero…"

It feels like sacrilege, her name on his slandering tongue, yet her lashes flutter. She places the warped roll back onto the dish and leans forward.

"The doctor believes your memories will return, but he is not sure how soon — days, weeks — " her voice wobbles " — months."

The doctor told him as much, though he could read the hesitation in the man's face. His memories could return — or they could not. These sort of things are down to divine will and bastards are not favourites of God.

John scowls at the wall. He cannot have lost something he never knew. But like his father's love or an honourable birthright, he feels that clenching absence in his chest, a gnawing hollow when Hero speaks his name, her fingers brushing over his own.

"If your memories have not returned tomorrow, I will make the household aware. They will not demand so much of you."

He bristles at the prospect of others learning of his condition — pitying him, wielding it against him.

Hero bats her hand. "Yes, yes, never admit weakness, you stubborn man. Our servants can be trusted to be discrete, I promise. If we did not tell them, they would only guess. You are not such an aloof master that they would not wonder if you stopped addressing them by their names or asking after their families."

John reflects on this. He never had an estate of his own to govern, though he would observe his father, and managed those duties which his brother thought too banal for his attention. And he led a revolt, be it unsuccessful. It is no mere feat to make men rise against their sovereign, to spit in the face of the familiar and comfortable, no matter how bitter their complaints, and risk sure punishment for their treason. It is not enough to inspire fear. You must garner their respect, their devotion, if you wish them to follow you to their deaths.

(And follow him, they did. Only, he survived.)

His bones ache with the memories of war. The scars feel fresh though they are more than ten years old now. Perhaps time does not heal all wounds (as if he did not already know this).

Hero's hand presses over his. "You are drifting. I will let you rest. But first I need to ask…"

She trails off. He glances at her, her focus fixed on their hands, where her fingers spread over his, her thumb stroking his knuckles. He restrains from flexing under her touch, holding his hand still, nails digging into the sheets.

She takes a breath and her eyes flit to his. "Our children… I can tell them your head is jumbled from the fall… they will forgive a few blunders, but I cannot — I cannot tell them their father has forgot— has forgotten them. It will — break their hearts."

Her voice cracks, shoulders quivering, and, without thinking, his hand envelops hers. "Hero."

She expels a shuddering breath, her fingers weaving between his own. "Will you — will you do this — please?"

He nods, not sure he could refuse her anything in this moment. "I will. Leonato, Antonio, and — and Clarissa."

She bows her head upon his shoulder. He stiffens, but she does not draw back, mumbling into his shirt, "I could tell you all about them. If it is not — if it is not too much."

His heart beats in his throat, so close to where her head rests. "Tell me."

She does so, spinning him visions of mischief and merriment, ensnaring him in her golden coils, and he knows this for a dream, knows when his eyelids re-open, lulled by her melodic tones, he will be returned to his bitter, shunned existence. But for now, he lets himself drift under her spell, tangling in a life of laughter, warmth, and belonging. Her hand does not leave his and he holds on to her — holds on to what might have been.

:-x-:

"Is he awake?"

"Ssshhh, you will wake him."

"That is the point."

John stirs into consciousness to not so quiet voices. Something prods his cheek.

"Leo. Stop."

He grimaces, scrunching his eyes.

"You woke him!"

He blinks against the morning light. Two impish faces stare down at him, dark curls and doe eyes. He stares back, his mind slowly waking. The girl leans forward and his brain snags on a tangle of thread, weaving a picture.

"Papà?"

The memories of last night blaze across his mind, snaring on those ragged edges where ten years have been scorched from his tapestry.

So. Not a dream.

John cannot begin to unravel all the implications, but, like a cat, he knows how to land on his feet.

"Clarissa," he answers, stiff. The name is both the salve and the wound.

She beams. "Good morning, Papà."

"I am sorry! I didn't mean to kill you!" The boy wails.

His sister thumps his arm. "Stupid! He is not dead."

"Don't hit me!" He thumps her back.

John's skull throbs and he sits up, startling the children as the blankets shift beneath them.

"Clarissa, Leo." He is used to commanding soldiers, not children, but at the low steel of his voice, they still (though do not appear fearful, he is relieved to note). He gentles his words as he addresses the boy. "As you can see, Leo, I am alive. If you wish to kill me, you will have to try harder."

"I don't want to kill you," Leo cries as if the concept were abominable (which is nice).

"Papà is jesting," Clarissa huffs. "A runt like you could never kill him."

"Hey! I am not a runt!"

And they are off again. John is unaccustomed to children, but they seem comfortable in his presence at least — and with each other. Hero explained Leo was only a year younger than Clarissa; it makes sense they are close. He thinks of his own fraught relationship with his brother; even as children they were kept apart, the resentment stoked. There was never any of this playful heckling between them.

Before anyone's elbow can land in an eye, he intercedes. "Who is going to tell me what I missed while I was sleeping?"

The children speak at once, raising their voices to be heard over the other, a verbal tug-of-war. Their speech is punctuated with wide gestures, rambling on tangents which lead to sudden ends and veer widely in other directions. He tries to pick-out the most salient details, but it is like using a fishing net to catch butterflies. All he can do is nod along, responding with what he hopes to be appropriate sounds and questions. Neither of them complains.

John has not spent much time around children, but he listened attentively as proud parents babbled on about their little ones, the serving staff warming to him, a beat-down soldier lighting with renewed purpose. He understands something of the role required of him. He is well-practiced in reflecting the mask others expect of him and this fits more naturally than some. In fact, this does not feel like pretending as amusement stirs in his chest.

The moment feels timeless, even with the sun pouring in from behind the shutters, flecks of dust shimmering in the air. He watches the children laugh and squabble with the flicker of a smile.

The door eases open and Hero pads inside, a dark-curled cherub bundled in her arms. This must be the two-year old Antonio, the resemblance to his namesake visible in his ruddy cheeks.

Hero spies the children crowding the bed and sighs. "Here are my troublesome children. I thought I might find you here."

"Mamma! Mamma!" Clarissa cries. "Look, Papà is awake."

"He is AWAKE!" Leo echoes, bouncing on the bed.

Hero's curls are loose and rumpled from sleep, rose-lips part in a teasing smile. "I would be amazed if he could sleep through your racket." She meets John's gaze, a question shining in her eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"I am awake," he answers, then shakes his head.

Her shoulders slump but her smile does not slip. "I am surprised you have not a headache from their squawking."

Said two exclaim their protests and the babe in Hero's arms join the raucous choir. John's fingers press against his brow, a dull ache growing behind his eyes.

"Hush, dear hearts!" Hero's voice is pleasant if worn. "Your papà is still recovering. Run along to Ursula and let her dress you for the day."

The wailing spikes, mattress creaking as the children flail. "NoooOOO!"

"Pa-Pa! Pa-Pa!" Tonio burbles, attempting to clamber from Hero's arms before she has even lowered him onto the bed.

"Are you not hungry? You cannot join us for breakfast until you are dressed."

"You are not dressed." Clarissa gestures to the long robe tied over Hero's nightgown.

Tonio crawls his way into John's lap, greeting him with a gum smile. "Pa-Pa!"

John's heart rolls in his chest, clattering upon a leaden stomach. Bright eyes peer up at him and he steadies the little one, conscious of his strength and the babe's fragile frame.

"I am not dressed because I have mischievous children to catch," Hero retorts and strikes, snatching the nearest imp — Leo — around the waist and hauling him to her. He goes thrashing and squealing. "Come on, or it will be cold eggs for you."

"Noo! Noo!" Clarissa crows, scrambling across the sheets to escape her mother, despite Hero's hands being full with a struggling Leo.

She is smiling but there is strain in her shoulders as she tries to wrangle the disobedient sprites, wisps of hair stick out at odd angles, and violet shadows her eyes.

"These cannot be my children," John says.

Hero flinches. The children hush.

"My children are well-behaved and listen to their mother."

Clarissa and Leo clamour their protest, "We ARE your children!" / "We are well-behaved!"

He pretends not to heed them, continuing in exaggerated tones, "You must be changelings, sent by the fae to cause mischief. We shall have to take you back to the forest and exchange you for our nice, quiet children."

Hero's mouth curves upwards as the children shout, "NO! NO! WE'RE NOT!"

John raises an eyebrow.

Their voices drop to a whisper, "We are not fae. We can behave."

He tilts his head sceptically. "Can you?"

"We CAN!" Leo exclaims. Clarissa elbows him and his voice goes small, "I mean — we can."

"Not fay," Tonio mumbles around his thumb, lolling in John's lap.

"If this is true then you better do as your mother says and go to Ursula. When I come down I expect to find you dressed and tidied — that means your hair combed, your faces washed, and your noses blown." He levels them with a stern look, keeping his gaze off Hero so her suppressed laughter does not trigger his own. "Or else, it is the forest for you."

The dismayed children hurtle from the bed and out the door. "Ursula! Ursula!"

Hero bursts into laughter as soon as they are gone, perching on the bed and beaming at him. "My prince of tricks."

The epithet is fond and familiar. His pulse quickens and he stares at her as if seeing her for the first time. And perhaps he is. When they first met, his vision was too clouded by vengeful thoughts to appreciate her loveliness, and after, he saw her as a pretty tool to spite the upstart Claudio and his prideful half-brother. Last night she appeared a dream to him, but now he sees her in the morning light — her hair is unravelled, her face bare, the blemishes of a sleepless night and the etches of laughter lines all revealed. More real to him now than she has ever been and still beautiful.

"Is this Hell?"

The smile is struck from her face and she goes rigid. When she speaks, her voice is tight, "Do you take this for punishment?"

Tonio gurgles, burrowing into John's arm. He swallows, "I would take this for paradise if I did not know myself a sinner."

Hero sucks in a breath, fingers spilling across his brow, "Oh, my melancholy love."

She plucks a hair from his head.

"Ow!"

"Feeling more in touch with real life?"

"You recall I suffered severe head trauma?"

Her lashes flutter. "With that thick skull of yours?"

He narrows his eyes. "I see I have married a jester."

"Yet it is you with the jingle-headed notions." She nudges his shoulder, pressing into him as she draws her legs onto the bed. "I should make you change Tonio's wrappings. That will settle any nonsense about paradise and dreams."

Tonio glances between them, crawling over John to get to his mother. She taps his nose and he giggles.

"Your memories are still gone," she murmurs, focus fixed on her son.

"They are," he confirms, almost an apology.

She sighs and leans her head on his shoulder, holding Tonio as he attempts to stand. "Thank you. For playing along with Clarissa and Leo."

Tonio flexes a pudgy paw, reaching for John. He offers out a finger and the toddler captures it in his fist. "It was no hardship."

For a moment, they sit in silence, Tonio babbling between them.

Then, Hero turns to him. "I know you, John. Despite all your guards and pretences, I know you. Who you were, who you are, who you believe yourself to be. I know your thoughts and doubts. Each of your evils and all of your good. I know the shape of your soul, down to the last splintered shard you fear unlovable. I know you. Even if you do not know yourself. I know you. And I love you. Always."

Her face ripples or perhaps it is John's vision. All he can do is stare — stare — expecting her to fade into cloud but she remains solid and true. His heart batters against his ribs.

Eyes shining, she rises from the bed, scooping Tonio into her arms. Her lips brush over the babe's dark curls. "Say goodbye to Papà, darling."

Tonio flaps his hand. "Bye-bye, Pa-Pa."

She heads for the door. Breath swells inside his chest, an urgent need to call her back. But his voice lodges in his throat, unable to summon the words.

"I shall send Conrade along to help you dress, if you are feeling up to it." She tosses him a smile like one does a lifeline to the drowning sailor. "I hope to see you at breakfast, along with our changeling children."

Then she is gone and his head hits the pillows. Alone once more, the silence presses down on him, suffocating. His mind whirls through the events of the last — hour? — piecing together the shatters of his life. His thoughts snag on Hero's parting words…

Did she say Conrade?

Chapter Text

Conrade does indeed arrive to help him dress. John can see how the years have altered the man, creases deepened in his brow, more salt than pepper to his hair. And yet, there is a bounce to his step that John does not remember.

Conrade places a water basin before the mirror. "Good morning, my lord. It is a relief to see you awake and well."

John assesses his former conspirator, crossing to the basin. "Not so well."

"Ah," Conrade regards him, always tactful in his handling of the bastard prince. "Yes, the lady confided your condition to Margaret."

John splashes his face, the action harsher than needed. "The whole household must be burning with the news."

"No doubt, it will be soon. But you need not fear indiscretion. I assure you, sir, you are well-liked among the staff."

Hero implied as much. It still surprises him. It is not that he cannot be charming. One cannot be a bastard and a brute. The dual nature of his birth means he has spent as much time amongst the serving class as he has those of his own noble rank. He knows their troubles, their concerns, what pleases them, what they despise, how to win their favour. Thus, it is not such a surprise that his staff like him.

Except that this is Hero's home, and she cannot be less loved than he. New servants may have been brought on in the last ten years, but many of them will have been there for the wedding scandal. They will know of his villainy and the harm he caused their sweet mistress. They should despise him.

Conrade hands him a towel and he dries his face, at last braving the mirror. He gazes at his reflection. Frowns. Looks closer —

His face appears unchanged, his beard the same if thicker, his hair perhaps an inch or two longer though it is hard to tell with the bandages. He is not as old as Conrade, but he expected some change, proof that he is a different man. Instead, he feels as if he has been transported into someone else's life. And isn't that just like him? Stealing what does not belong to him.

"You look as if you have seen a ghost," Conrade's voice is light.

It breaks the spell. John turns from his reflection. "Only a devil."

Conrade turns solemn and focuses on laying out his master's clothes.

"Have all us villains made their roost in Messina? Should I expect Borachio to crawl from the woodwork?"

The thought is sour on his tongue and the same appears so for Conrade, who stiffens, moustache twitching in displeasure. "No. God knows what became of the lout."

John arches an eyebrow, shirking his sleepwear for a fresh shirt and breeches.

Conrade folds his clothes, not meeting his gaze. "Your wife is a gracious lady. If he were to repent she would forgive him. But he is long in the wind and I do not desire him near. Nor, I think, do you."

"No." John senses there is more than the other man is saying. "I heard you were captured."

Conrade gives a curt nod. "The night before the wedding, the Watch overheard Borachio bragging of the plot to me and took us in for questioning. I admit, I did not make a friend of the local constable but that is settled now."

John noticed his fellows' absence from the wedding but had not concerned himself with their fates, high on his victory. Now, the thought sits ill with him.

"Of the three of us, your only crime was following me."

Conrade looks surprised and his expression shifts with unease. "Sir, that is long behind us. I hold a good position in your house. My past actions, I repent. As I know, do you. We need not speak more of it."

John realises his discomfort stems from shame. Conrade has moved on from the past. Easy enough when you have had ten years to make peace. John's guilt is only a few days old; it snares in his chest, a tangle of thorns.

"I hope I have compensated you well for your loyalty."

Conrade's face relaxes, changing into what John realises is a smile. "Indeed, you are a generous lord."

John shrugs on a waistcoat. "I am sure you have the lady's grace to thank for that."

"You are well-suited to each other."

He frowns. "As well as the dove suits the serpent, I am sure."

"Ah, I remember this man. Any poison in your bite is one you have drunk yourself.

John's gaze cuts to him. Before he would have exploded over such a comment; now he is too tired for that sort of wrath. He speaks, his voice a razor's edge. "You have grown bolder."

Conrade appears to realise his misstep and the clemency afforded. "Forgive me if I speak so. The product of a tolerant master and a spirited wife."

"You are married?"

Conrade's face illuminates in a smile, clear of the past's shadows, and he seems younger, lighter. "I am. We have two sons, around the same age as your eldest."

The strings of John's heart strain at the mention of his children. He sits on the bed, the world pressing in around him.

"Sir?" Conrade's voice rings with concern, distant as if through a narrow tunnel. "Sir, are you well? Shall I fetch the mistress?"

He makes an abortive gesture and Conrade falls silent, accustomed to his master's sullen moods. Or, he used to be. Who is John now? This man, whose face he wears, is as much a stranger to him as the butterfly to the caterpillar.

"How am I here?"

There are many ways Conrade could answer that and some of them sincere. But he has served John longer than the man can remember and he takes a moment to measure his response.

"I ask myself the same sometimes. With my wife in my arms and my sons by my side. I think — how is this right? For me to be so rewarded? I have not lived a pious life. I too had a hand in wickedness…" He pauses, releasing a breath, and his mouth twitches. "Then my wife tells me to stop brooding and do something useful. And, I do." He smiles as he speaks of his wife, before sobering. "You think it is wrong that knaves like us prosper but the justice of the world is this — you reap what you sow. And you, my lord, never balk from hard labour. You toiled for this life. If you marvel at the splendour of the garden, know it was earned, not through any tricks or disguises, but the honest sweat on your back and the dirt beneath your nails. You are here because you made the effort to change, to be a better man. And you are, my lord. You are."

John absorbs these words. Conrade was always prone to preaching, hoping to placate the prince's darker tempers, but never managed the conviction he does now. Bolder indeed.

John rises from the bed. "Conrade, I think your wife a good influence."

Conrade smiles and John never knew the man had dimples. "In that, my lord, we are both blessed."

John's thumb brushes over his ring. "Yes, we are."

:-x-:

Conrade directs him to the dining room. During his previous stay, John had taken pains to avoid his brother and companions, forsaking his hosts and eating meals alone in his room whenever possible. Now, he enters the bustling room.

His gaze finds Hero. She has Tonio in her lap and is dabbing at a smear of jam across his wide grin. Clarissa and Leo are seated opposite each other, squabbling over something as an aged Ursula implores for peace. Beside them, he recognises Hero's father and uncle. The former smiling fondly at the squalling children while Antonio releases a booming guffaw.

At his entrance, the room goes quiet. Clarissa and Leo straighten in their seats, transforming into the perfect children, munching placidly on their breakfast, while the elders regard him like a fox in the henhouse.

Hero meets his gaze, her mouth opening to speak —

Tonio splatters jam across her cheek.

She blinks at her son, shocked by his betrayal. The toddler giggles and the tension snaps, laughter renewed.

Leonato beckons John over with a wide grin; a contrast to the polite slither he offered during their first meeting. Or the furious glare he received upon their last encounter.

His voice is warm and welcoming, "Come, son, sit with us."

Son. John falters.

These people should spit at his feet, not invite him to dine with them.

"I saved you a seat, Papà!" Clarissa calls, gesturing to the empty chair between her and Hero. "Uncle tried to steal it but I shooed him off."

"She is a fierce one," Antonio chuckles. "I look forward to when she is grown and can match her aunt for wit."

"Between her and her cousins, the Heavens will quake," Leonato says with pride.

Clarissa does not appear to understand these speeches but recognises their praise and preens. Next to her, Hero is a steady beacon and John is pulled into her orbit, settling between them.

Tonio is handed to Ursula so Hero can clean herself and she smiles at him shyly. "Hello."

"Hello," he greets, unable to suppress a grimace. Her face turns sympathetic and he wants to crawl out of his skin.

"We are pleased you could join us, John," Leonato says from across the table, the hairs on John's neck standing-on-end. "You gave us quite the scare."

"Father—"

"I wasn't scared," Clarissa cuts in.

"That is because you have the heart of a lion, my dear," Antonio says.

"My name is lion," Leo pipes up, puffing out his chest.

Clarissa scoffs. "You are named after Grandpa, who is an old man."

"Clarissa!" Hero and Ursula admonish, while Antonio roars with laughter, and Leonato chuckles good-naturedly.

"Ol'man," Tonio gurgles.

"NO! I am a lion!" Leo insists and makes a clawing motion, growling at Tonio. "RAH! I am going to eat you!"

His brother giggles, mirroring his actions. "Rah!"

"Goodness!" Ursula pretends to cower. "What ferocious beasts!"

"It is a pity animals are not allowed at the table, Leo," Hero croons, setting a plate of food in front of John.

"Thank you," he murmurs, picking at the meal.

She gives him a gentle smile.

"I may be old now," Leonato rejoins, "But when I was younger, I was a venerated soldier. I could show you a thing or two."

This has Leo bolting up excitedly, "Ooh! Please!"

"Father, please. No more accidents."

"We will not use real steel," Leonato assures his daughter.

Her nostrils flare. "No. I hope you will not hand my five-year-old a sword."

"Accidents are how they learn, niece," Antonio jokes.

She pins him with what is best described as the stink-eye and John is fascinated by her change from meak, abiding daughter to this indomitable lady of the house.

"Aunt Bea says a sharp witch is better than a sharp sword," Clarissa pronounces.

Leo scrunches his nose. "What, like magic?"

"I think you mean wit, princess," Ursula corrects gently. "It means clever."

"I will chop down any witch with my sword!" Leo declares, slashing the air with a butter knife.

Ursula recoils, shielding Tonio.

Leonato chuckles nervously and reaches for the knife. "Ah, best give that to me, lad."

"I will cast a spell on you!" Clarissa returns, brandishing a bread roll as Leo jabs his blade in her direction.

"Leo, put that knife down," Hero commands, her tone brooking no argument.

The boy falters, glancing between his mother and sister, conflicted.

John leans back in his chair. "I believe a morning stroll to the woods will do wonders for the children."

The knife clatters to the table, both children settling in their seats, the picture of innocence. The adults breathe a sigh of relief and nod to John in approval. He lowers his gaze, mouth tasting of ash.

The conversation turns, the children soon enlivened, but this time no knives are wielded. The elders laugh along, indulging and needling their juniors in equal bouts. It makes for a cosy, family scene. John has not felt so out of place since he joined his father's household. It crosses his mind that this must be how Judas felt at the last supper.

Fingers brush his fist and he flinches, glancing up at his own martyr reborn, a soft question in her gaze. There is no answer he can give her and he casts his eyes to his half-eaten meal. The mask presses in around his face, cutting into bone. Yet her fingers do not leave his, caressing white knuckles.

There is a tug on his arm, Clarissa's doe eyes imploring. "You will play Princess Court with me today, won't you, Papà?"

John opens his mouth, voice stalling.

Hero answers for him. "Later, perhaps, Clarissa. If he is feeling well enough."

"But you promised!"

"I will play with you," Antonio intercedes and Leonato sounds his agreement.

Clarissa does not deign them with a glance, eyes narrowing on John. "I want to play with Papà!"

"Me too!" Leo exclaims.

"Papà!" Tonio claps his hands.

Hero's expression tightens. "You know your father has business to attend. And you have your lessons."

"Ugh!" Leo slumps in his chair.

"But after?" Clarissa persists, formidable for a six-year-old.

"Then we will play," John promises.

She brightens and allows Ursula to lead her from the room along with the others. Antonio follows after them, leaving John alone with Hero and Leonato.

The latter's jovial expression slips into something sombre as he regards them. "How bad is it?"

Hero inhales, glancing at John. He assumes from the others' earlier reactions that Hero must have informed them of his condition to a degree.

He does not beat about the bush. "My memories end with my first visit here. It gets… blurred around your daughter's revival."

She holds his hand, steadfast. He should return the gesture, but he knows how fast things turn to sand when he reaches for them.

The lines in Leonato's weathered face deepen, showing his age. "This must be confusing."

The corner of John's mouth twitches. "It is that."

"Any past disputes are long behind us. This is as much your home as it is ours."

John swallows, tasting blood. "I… thank you…" He grimaces as he echoes those words from their first encounter, before he repaid his host's kindness in mourning garb.

Leonato's gaze slides to his daughter and John does not look to see what passes between them. "We should speak later about the management of the estate, but I can assist whilst you are — not yourself. Hero knows what to do, regardless."

He rises from his chair, gripping a cane. John stands, uncertain if he should help, but Margaret materialises, offering her arm, which the old man accepts. "Thank you, my dear."

If Margaret suffered any repercussions in the wake of John and Borachio's deception, there is no evidence in this pleasant exchange. Then again, if the family can welcome the villain of the plot at their table, they can forgive one unwitting serving maid.

Leonato nods to the pair as he departs. "As always, I leave you in my daughter's capable hands."

"Sir," John returns and then he is alone with Hero.

She is still seated, appearing in deep contemplation.

"My lady?"

She shakes from thought, eyes lifting to his. Her mouth curves but her smile is faded, like a veil cast over the sun. He tells himself it is the least he deserves. But John has never been able to escape that gnawing hunger in his chest and, having glimpsed the stars, he cannot content himself with shadows.

She rises. "Will you walk with me in the garden?"

He nods. They exit the room, together but apart, leaving the servants to clear the remains of the familial scene.

Chapter Text

The gardens are the same sweeping hedgerows he lost himself in to escape the crowds during his first visit. Colour blooms across prosperous green, more vibrant than he remembers, as if he has wandered into a painting. Hero's skirts swish, revealing bare calves as she moves. Her hair is bundled in another messy bun, curls springing free. His fingers itch to catch one, feel its silk against his skin, and unravel all her efforts.

He keeps his fists clamped to his sides, thinking of anything but the brush of Hero's hand against his own.

"So, my lord, what conclusions have you reached?"

"Conclusions?"

"I expect you have formed some ideas from your observations." A smile threads through her words.

She is not wrong. He has been trying to puzzle out his life from what he has seen and heard but none of the pieces fit right. "I know not what to think. You could call the sun the moon and I would be forced to accept it."

She twirls, an absent-minded motion that has John staring. "The sun is still the sun, it has merely risen more times than you remember."

They stop beside a fountain and John examines his reflection in the pool, tracing his features. "My face is still my own."

She laughs, cupping his cheeks. "Of course, whose else would it be?"

"Claudio's," the name rings like iron on his tongue.

She snatches her hands back, burned, and he sees the match strike in her eyes. "Claudio and I were barely a summer. You and I are sworn for eternity."

"Are we? I cannot remember."

"I know!"

He stills. He has never heard her raise her voice like that. Even against Claudio's accusations, it was pitched in desperation. All damp and no fire.

Shame fractures her fragile countenance and she sinks onto the fountain ledge, hanging her head. "I know — I know you do not remember."

John heaves a breath, wrangling the beast inside him, eager to sink its fangs into the rabbit's flesh. "I — forgive me." He grits his teeth, the sun's glare hot upon him. "It is not… with you my frustration lies."

There is an opening there. Her cousin would not miss it.

Hero exhales. "Then forgive me too. I know you have been patient."

"No one has accused me of that before."

She smiles soft and wearied, her eyes rich as the soil from which the emerald grass springs. "I will tell you whatever you wish to know."

The questions surge like tidal waves crashing over one another. He could start with the most pressing, the most important questions — but that is no way to win at cards.

He sits, stretching out his legs. "What is Princess Court?"

The smile steals across her lips and her guard drops. "It is a game you created with Clarissa. She is the ruling princess and you come to her with problems to solve — land disputes, neighbours stealing cattle, there is not enough wheat, there is too much wheat, what to do if your subjects are dissatisfied and threaten revolt."

Her eyes twinkle on this last one and the corner of his mouth twitches. "Am I such a poor lord that I must seek the advice of a child?"

"Indeed, you are a good lord." Her hand rests on his arm, a frisson running through him before she pulls it back to her lap. "Messina thrives under your management. And, you are well-liked."

"I expect much of the credit goes to the lady of the estate."

"It is a team effort."

Team, what a word to bind them together.

"The game is good for Clarissa," she continues, a light breeze fluttering her curls. "It challenges her to think about the problems different people face and how to resolve them. Any estate she ends up managing will be better for it."

There is pride in her voice and John feels his chest tighten, casting his gaze around the garden. "She is very astute."

Hero laughs, a mellifluous sound that knots around his heart. "If we are not careful she will have us all wound around her finger, falling for her tricks."

He meets her playful grin with an arched brow. "Methinks you mean to charge me with something, my lady."

"Nothing I wish to change, my lord."

Gold flecks gleam in her eyes like burning stars. They are leaning close, he realises and pulls back.

Her breath sighs across his beard. "Ask me."

He freezes, startled by the strength of her voice. "Pardon?"

"Ask me. What it is you are afraid to ask.."

It is like her hand is inside his ribcage, pressing down on his lungs until the words croak out, "After — what happened? After? How can we be — how are we married?"

How did you forgive me?

She nods and her fingers brush his, a question in her touch. Unsure how to refuse her, he lets her take his hand.

She tells him a tale of trials unforeseen and kinship in the unlikeliest of places, of wild greens and tangled weeds, of dark waters and guiding lights, of gossamer touches stolen in shadows, and words like golden threads, reweaving their tapestries. She tells him — her voice a sonata in dulcet tones — of dirt under their nails from the hatchet buried and the fragile buds which sprouted from that fertile ground. She tells him of the fire which almost razed the garden, of the blood on her teeth from biting her tongue, and his calloused hands holding hers through the smoke.

She tells a tale of redemption and forgiveness and as she does she traces her finger over his palm, mapping the whorls like a charlatan might do to read his fortunes. She tells him a love story and — with breathless wonderment — he watches her face unfurl like blossoms on a tree, falling in love all over again.

She finishes speaking and the clearing fills with the trickle of the fountain, the rustling leaves, and the birds chirping in the trees. He is not breathing. Turned to stone. A chill breeze whips his hair. Heart battering a granite chest, threatening to turn him to rubble.

"...John?" her voice gentle like the ripples on the pond.

He stands, takes several strides —

Halts. Glances back.

The wind has picked up around them, riffling through the hedges, tugging on his sleeves, and billowing her skirts. She rises, a wraith in white, her face crumpled like a petal crushed beneath his boot. It spears through him, hollowing out his chest, the squall loud in his ears, and he gulps down air.

"Hero…" the name tears from his throat, ragged as the wind. "Am I… am I a good husband? Are you happy? Are you safe?"

Relief pours across her face and she staggers forward. "Yes. Yes. Oh dear heart, no one could love me better."

There is a trembling through his bones, his fists clenching. "I wronged you."

She closes the distance, fingers smoothing across his jaw — when was the last time anyone touched him like this, so gentle?

"Oh my sweet villain. You have long repaid that debt."

His eyelids shutter and — he cannot do this — he cannot — all his careful composure, his decades-old defences, torn up at the roots —

Her arms fold around him, pressing her face into his shoulder, warm breath tickles the crook of his neck. "When they came running across the fields, shouting that you were injured — when I saw you lying there — so still — and you did not — did not wake up—" She expels a quaking breath, tightening her hold. "It does not matter if you cannot remember — it does not matter — you are still the man I married, the man I love, and who I want to be with — John… John…"

His stomach convulses, sweat crawling over flesh. His hands pulsate, limp at his sides. His throat chokes with rusted nails as he grinds his teeth. Unworthiness has dogged his heels his whole life, but never has he felt more wretched than Hero's lips upon his skin, swearing she loves him.

He rips from her embrace. "I know that man not. I am not him."

"John—"

"I am sorry, lady. I will play your masquerade, but you and I know the truth of what I am."

"John — you are the most frustrating man," she exhales and shifts forward. He recoils and she sighs, raising her hands placatingly. "I will not push. If you can pretend for the children that is enough. That is enough."

She murmurs this last part as if to convince herself. John stands paralysed, wanting to say something, but what words can he offer? He is not her husband.

The breeze settles and she floats past him like dandelion fluff. "Shall we return?"

Her tone is mild and he would not discern a change in her features if he were not accustomed to wearing a mask himself. He nods and they walk back to the villa. Their hands do not brush.

:-x-:

As they enter the courtyard there is barking. Two — four — six blurs of white, tawny, and chestnut barrel towards them. John moves to steer Hero behind him but she flies ahead to meet the dogs, bending down to catch the first in an embrace, the others surging around her and John, yapping excitedly.

"Hello, darlings," Hero nuzzles their fur, sunlight spilling from her smile, and something inside him twists.

"Papà! Mamma!"

Clarissa and Leo rush towards them, Ursula and Antonio following behind at a pace more suited to their advanced years. Tonio squeals in Ursula's arms and Hero hurries to collect her son, blowing a kiss upon his forehead.

The dogs vary in breeds and sizes, some as big as the children, and the fear they will be trampled rattles through John. But the beasts are gentle, accustomed to the little ones. A few nudge his legs and John leans down, scratching behind their ears. "You are fine creatures, aren't you?"

"Clarissa, Leo — you should remind your papà of all their names," Hero calls.

John is swarmed in fur, the dogs frolicking around him as the children belt out names faster than he can process.

"This is Froth—

"—this is Bacon!"

"This one's Belch—"

"—these are Snout and Snug!"

"And she is Quickly!"

When he glances up, Hero is retreating inside the house. A weight settles in his stomach. He turns back to find the children looking at him in eager anticipation.

"Uhh…" He shoots Antonio a panicked glance, "What now?"

The older man grins and Clarissa bounces on her toes, throwing her hands in the air. "We play Princess Court!"

:-x-:

Princess Court, John discovers, mainly consists of Clarissa lounging on a makeshift throne, issuing decrees, and puzzling out whatever problems John and Antonio invent for her. She is far more rational than he would expect of someone her age. Not all her solutions are practical, but at six she makes a better sovereign than most lords.

In contrast, Leo is more whimsical, indulging in fantasies of knights, damsels, and dragons. He gallops about the garden, honouring some dogs as his noble steeds and others as monsters to be vanquished. The dogs at least appear used to this sort of play-fighting and follow along well enough.

John watches the children play and marvels at Hero's features melding with his own. There is his nose, and those are her eyes, that is his jaw, and there are her dimples, the arch of his brow, her tumble of curls — the list goes on. These are their children. Their children.

(John needs to sit down.)

And, of course, they inherited his temper.

John and Antonio intervene as a scuffle breaks out between the siblings. John grabs Clarissa while Antonio hefts his brother's namesake into his arms, spinning the squealing child.

"Hmph."

John looks down and finds Clarissa frowning at him. "Is something wrong?"

"Hmph!" She thrusts her arms in the air waving them as he stares. "Up! Up! I want to go up!"

"Uhh…"

It clicks that she wants to be picked up like her brother. John falters. He has never held a child, though the mechanics must be simple enough. How different can it be to a sack of grain? But is it safe? He glances at Antonio, who is watching with a twinkle in his eyes as he dangles a giddy Leo upside-down.

"I do not think that is a good idea…"

Hero will not be pleased if he injures her children. What even happens if a six-year-old loses ten-years of memory? His skull throbs.

"But you carry me all the time!" Clarissa argues. "I want to go UP!"

"Um…" John fakes a stumble, lifting a hand to his head. "I am… too weak from my fall. I am not strong enough."

"You are strong enough to carry Mamma and she is heavier than me!"

"I — I have not carried your mother."

"Yes, you have. You do so all the time!"

His thoughts stutter on the image of Hero in his arms. Fortunately, Ursula chooses that moment to call them in for dinner and the prospect of food has the children scrambling inside, their shouts heralding their entrance.

John starts as a hand pats his shoulder.

Antonio smiles at him, warm and sincere. "You are good with them."

"I — I do not even remember them."

"You may not remember them here," Antonio taps his forehead. "But you remember them here," he taps the spot over John's heart and the latter stiffens. "You are a good father, John. Trust your instincts."

John has no response to that and remains silent as he follows Antonio inside.

Chapter Text

There is a portrait which hangs over the mantlepiece. In it, John and Hero stand shoulder-to-shoulder, looking out at the world together as husband and wife. John admires those delicate brush strokes which caress flushed cheeks, capturing silken curls, and the fullness of her rosebud smile. A loveliness which pales only to the woman herself.

There are other paintings; the same couple, in different positions and a growing number of children. They look happy. All of them, happy.

John considers his own likeness — cutting features, a subtle curve to the corners of his mouth — this man who is husband and father, at peace with the world. And he searches for himself.

:-x-:

John called their children changelings, but if anyone can change their skin, it is him. Shifting with the music, dancing the marionette so no one suspects him the puppeteer.

Of course, whatever new skin he dons, it will always chafe. His talent was cultivated for survival, not pleasure. Her husband has an honest temper, if a lying tongue. He would sooner cut the nobles who scorned him than simper for their favour. But his father's patience only stretched so far. Thus, he learned to play their game.

Except, he had taken off his mask for Hero. She had learned charmed words from a handsome smile were no guarantee of happiness or security. She could not love anything less than the raw and ugly truth.

She knows each of his scars — on the surface and underneath — has touched every inch of his skin, as he has touched every inch of hers. She knows him down to his marrow and yet this man across from her — attempting civil if stilted conversation with her father — does not know the count of her freckles or where her skin stretched in childbirth. He does not lean into her shoulder or toy with her curls. When her fingers brush his hand, he flinches, and her grip tightens around her fork, its pattern embedding into her palm.

When it is time to usher the children to bed, he pads after her like a lost duckling. She longs to turn, push back those ink locks and smooth the wrinkles from his brow. But she cannot bear to watch him recoil again. So she keeps her gaze ahead and cradles Tonio close.

Convincing the children to sleep is always an uphill battle but the promise of a story has them piling onto Leo's bed — Snug, Snout, and Quickly beside them. She settles in the chair next to the bed, conscious of John hovering in the doorway, as if he has not listened in a thousand times before.

"What story would you like?"

"Something magic!" Clarissa demands. "With a clever girl."

"And there should be a prince! And a beast!" Leo adds.

"Bee-sstt, yeah!" Tonio claps and topples against Snout.

Hero smiles. "Very well… I will tell you the story of a cursed prince and the woman who fell in love with him despite his beastly nature."

The children cheer. Coal eyes scorch her neck but her voice does not falter as she begins.

"Once upon a time… there was a young, selfish prince with a very bad temper…"

:-x-:

Hero pecks each of her children on the forehead as she tucks them into bed despite their groaning and bids them goodnight, leaving them under the protection of the dogs. She makes her way along the hall, unsurprised when she turns the corner and finds John leant against the wall.

She approaches with a tentative smile. "Did you enjoy the story?"

He inclines his head, fixing her with a dry look that has her biting her lip, it is so him. "Falling in love with one's captor may be a poor message for the children."

She could bathe in that drawl. "It is the theme of redemption, I prefer."

"You are a saint, lady."

His tone is mocking, but that is the cut of his tongue. Hero knows how he sounds when he means to wound. This is not it.

"Miracles happen when you give people a second chance."

"It must be disappointing to see all your efforts reversed." His face is impassive. She knows this feint.

"The efforts were yours. And I do not think them reversed." She reaches around him, opening the door to the master bedroom. "Come, this is no place for private conversation."

He hesitates, then follows her inside. The door shuts and they are alone. The room is cast in candlelight, shadows flickering. Tension exudes from his shoulders, stoking her own nerves.

She clasps her hands together, a tremor passing through them, and offers a smile. "At ease, I shall not ravish you."

His face convulses, closing in on himself, and she curses her blunder. "Do you enjoy making me your fool?"

"No, of course not. It is not my intention — John, please. I am your wife, not your enemy."

"There are some who would consider them the same."

"I hope you never think of me so."

He regards her, mouth pursed in a thin line. Long ago, he would have appeared unreadable, but now she knows him better. She sees through his defences, the walls he erects between them. Her heart pangs at being shut out once more.

"As I said, lady… you are a saint."

Her hands knot in her skirts. "I swear, if this is leading to some remark about you being the devil…" his face shifts and she throws up her arms, "You must be the stubbornest soul I have ever encountered — and I am cousin to Beatrice and Benedick both."

His eyebrows shoot up. "So those butting goats did wed."

"Oh," she blinks and her ire snuffs "Yes. All the preparations had been made for a wedding… someone ought to make use of them."

John hums, that familiar sound soothing the hairs on her neck. "I am not surprised love was disguised in their loathing, only that pride allowed them to confess it."

She laughs. "For sure, it was a Herculean feat. One I am unsure would have been accomplished without Benedick's defence of my honour. Only then could Beatrice trust his heart and give her own in return."

"I see…" his speech is slow, the sign of a racing mind, "...it is right then that he devised my punishment, for I injured his sweet cousin."

She stiffens. "That is long in the past."

"It seems there is much long in the past for me." Bitterness laces his words.

"You have the present," she offers, hope lodged in her throat like a shard of glass. "How… how do you find it?"

He stares at her, his eyes the ashes of every bridge he has ever burned and in them embers glisten. "Mystifying."

Her fingers still, enthralled as his lips shape the syllables.

"Well," she steadies her breathing, "there are worse words."

"There are worse fates." He cringes. "I do not mean…"

"What do you mean?"

His throat bobs, his expression pinched. "Any man… any man would be blessed to have such a… life."

She charts his thoughts like constellations. "And you have always thought yourself cursed."

His lashes flicker, unused to being seen, and she knows he is reevaluating his judgement of her. She sighs, exhausted. "John… I am not your jailer. I do not hold your memories ransom. Please, you can ask me anything."

"And if I ask to leave?" His voice is barren as the desert night, freezing her heart. "This is not a home I recognise. What if I desire a different life, other choices. You say you are not my jailer."

She reels back, grasping the bedpost, the air knocked from her lungs. He could not have produced a more devastating effect had he struck her. But words were always his weapon. Tears burn like frost upon her cheeks. She scrunches her eyes shut, curling in on herself.

"Oohh, how calmly you kill."

A flame crackles to life inside her chest and her eyes flash open. His cold, porcelain mask is cracked, concern weeping through. Under her gaze, he scrambles to piece it back together.

"You are like a goose," she seethes, fists balled at her sides as fat tears roll down her cheeks, "with its leg trapped in a hole, biting at anyone who tries to help."

His jaw goes slack, "A goose—"

"Yes, a goose!" She surges forward, hands flattening into a goose's head as she pecks at him, jabbing his chest, his arms, his stomach, his shoulders. "You — do not — deserve — a more elegant — comparison."

He shields from her assault, catching her wrists. "Peace! Peace!" His arms fold around her, securing her so that her back is to his front. His chin slumps onto her head, mumbling into her curls. "That was unworthy of me."

His breath flutters through her hair, voice worn and true. She fights not to fall into his warmth; this is the first time he has held her since the accident.

"I knew you would bite."

It has been a long time since his worse nature reared its head. She has forgotten the length of his fangs. She called him a goose but in truth he is a kicked hound, chained to a post, its ribs bruised and exposed, gnashing at its leash. He will savage anyone who ventures close, even the hand that feeds it. Hero has been attempting to pacify him while treating him like the same man from before the accident. And he is the same man. In all ways that matter, he is the same. But he is also that strange, feral creature she first met; half-man, half-beast, starved of all but hate. She should expect a few scratches.

John lets her go. Cold, she turns to him. His jaw tightens as he tracks her tears.

"I — was lying," he admits, as if his mouth is full of thorns. "I have no desire to leave. Not unless — not unless you want me gone."

He bows his head, shoulders bunching. Her fingers rise to touch him —

And fall.

"I could never want you gone. Plague that you are, I want no cure. John, I love you—"

"Stop. Please."

Her mouth shuts. He stands braced against further assault. She recognises this war between suspicion — the urge to wound before he is wounded — and a genuine wish to not cause her further harm. She is silent, her heart aching for this ragdoll man who, for all his skins and stitches, never could find a place he belonged.

Until her — and the home they built together.

But he no longer remembers. Does not know how to embrace the present without it crumbling in his arms — and is that not so him? This ridiculous, stubborn man. Her most frustrating love. It is not right. It is not fair. She wants to smash something so it too can feel what it is to be shattered. But she knows — she knows — it will bring no comfort, no resolution. Better she leave him now so he can lick his wounds. And she can nurse her own. If she lingers, it will only hurt them both.

"It has been a long day. I shall bid you goodnight."

She moves to the door. Not the one they entered through. The other door, which blends discreetly in with the wall.

His gaze narrows, only just noticing it. "Where does that lead?"

Exhaustion grinds her bones but the corners of her mouth still rise. "To my bedroom, of course. I will be there, should you need of me."

In truth, it is their bedroom, as he slept there more than the master suite. But now her touch repulses him. Her sheets will be cold.

Like a figure in a music box, John stutters. Then, throws his gaze Heaven-wards as if to say — can you believe this?

Mirth trickles through her and she slips across the threshold, into the adjoining bedroom. Her eyes hold his own until the door is shut and they are divided.

She presses her hand to the wood, heart beating in her palm.

.

.

.

With a shaking breath, she lowers her arm. Her feet walk her to the bed and she collapses, clasping her pillow. The dam breaks and her tears pour.

Please. Please. Please.

:-x-:

On the other side of the door, John listens to her muffled sobs. Slumping against the wall, he sinks to the floor, dragging a hand down his face.

He truly is a wretched villain.

Chapter Text

The night before Hero and Claudio's wedding, John slept well for the first time in months, satisfied his revenge was in reach, sparing no thought for the innocent bride whose fate he sealed.

The night after his quarrel with Hero, John finds no rest, head pounding with the revelations of the day, a new discomfort in each position he tries, his old battle-scars aching. His heart drums in his ears, oppressed under the silence of the household. All he sees is Hero, her image etched in his mind —

Hero's smile, a flickering light in the shadowed room. How she flinched when he spoke of leaving, trembling like the lamb before the wolf. Pale as a ghost as she slipped from the room, eyes shining like shattered glass.

Hero's curls framing her face, narrating a bedtime tale to the children; her voice transforming from sweet to gruff for the different characters, contorting her features to the children's delighted laughter.

Hero in the garden, thriving with the flora as she speaks of their past. Proud and formidable, swearing she loves him.

Hero haloed in the morning glow, Tonio nestled in her arms, her smile a soft embrace.

Hero in her wedding gown, beaming as she walks down the aisle on her father's arm. Her terrified shriek as her would-be husband throws her to the ground; her lovely face tortured with Claudio and Don Pedro's violent revile. And him, twisting the dagger with his own mocking chastisement.

John wrestles sleep into a chokehold and, at last, passes out.

He dreams of white lace staining scarlet —

— his hands dripping a dark puddle on the altar —

— a bride walks to him, lifting her tattered veil to reveal a corpse —

— flesh-eaten fingers reach inside his ribcage, wrenching out his heart —

— Hero smiles, blood pouring from her lips, and presents the still-beating malformation as black as coal —

John wakes, soaked in sweat. He stumbles to the window, throwing it open. Night wanes into lavender plumes as dawn tiptoes rose prints across Messina's tumbling greens. The air is crisp, cool on his skin. He can taste the dew collecting in the fields.

He dresses haphazardly, not bothering to button the coat he throws on over his shirt. He creeps through the house. Silence is impossible with boots on these floorboards but anyone who hears him will mistake him for staff. He takes a few wrong turns but navigates his way out of the villa and into the grounds.

He pauses to draw breath, the world caught between dreams and waking. The moon and stars still cling to night's shroud even as the sun peeks over the hillside, ushered in by a chorus of birdsong. Gravel crunches under foot and he looks out across the rolling fields, emerald and gold. Above them, amber flames across sapphire skies. What sort of man would he be if he woke to this every morning?

His eyes flutter shut, a tranquil breeze sweeping over him, and the soldier's burden he carried long before his first campaign clatters from his shoulders. He breathes in, light and calming. For the first time in his life, he is not at war. For the first time, he feels something close to peace.

"Beautiful morning, is it not?"

John whirls.

Leonato is seated on a bench, smiling at him. "Rare to see you at this hour. Come to watch the sunrise?"

"I — I fancied a walk."

"Excellent." Leonato rises. "I shall join you."

"Uh — no — I don't—"

Leonato wags his cane. "Do not attempt to dissuade me. I am plenty sprightly for my age."

Sensing any protest will be futile, John inclines his head. "Sir."

They wander down the path; John's strides are languid, matching the elder's pace. For a while there is silence between them, savouring the morning song. Of course, John's hopes of avoiding conversation are dashed as Leonato speaks.

"I always watch the sunrise when I can. Messina is beautiful all times, but at this hour it is magical."

John hums, looking out over the lands so he does not have to meet the elder's gaze. He understands what he means, it is an enchanting sight, something from a painting or poem.

"I am fortunate to have called such a place my kingdom," Leonato continues, not minding his stoic companion. "Now it is yours."

"Sir?"

Leonato chuckles. "I do not expect I have to explain inheritance to you, son. You did marry my daughter, after all."

"So I did." John rubs the ring on his finger. "I am amazed you consented to the union."

He knows that a prince, even a bastard, is a desirable match. And, in spite of his slander proven false, Hero's reputation would have been tarred — especially if she then refused Claudio. It is not the tale Hero told, but John wonders if it were not desperation that drove Leonato to hand his beloved daughter to the villain. The thought has John's stomach twisting, a hollow nausea.

"I admit, I had my misgivings when your attachment became apparent. But I could not refuse Hero her happiness. And happy, you have made her."

John did not make her happy last night.

"Ahh," Leonato utters, a shrewd gleam in his gaze. "Yesterday was difficult, was it not?"

Hell, John is sick of others perceiving him so well. But then, he is playing cards with himself. Everyone already knows his hand.

"Excuse us our inconsiderations. You look so much the same we forget you do not remember us as we do you."

John is quiet, watching as a bird flies into the bush, a worm caught between its beak, breakfast for its chicks. His nails grit in his palm.

"When I first understood how you wronged my daughter, I wanted to rend you limb from limb," Leonato admits, a hint of the fury he must have felt at his daughter's disgrace in the rasp of his voice.

When John plotted with Borachio, he knew his lies may prove enough to kill their host. The serpent in his chest shifts, scales sliding, as he recalls how he had not cared — even relished in another person's misery. They meant to muzzle him but look how the dog bites.

Now he understands he misjudged the old warrior's strength — and the strength of Hero against her accusers. It was through her, his schemes were unravelled. Not his noble half-brother or witty Benedick or the oh so gallant Claudio. But Hero's honest conviction and the kindness which made her so well-loved. It was she who had been his undoing.

And, it seems she is still.

"But you have proven yourself a better man than your actions painted you," Leonato carries on, unaware of the colour bleeding from John's face. "No one could care as well for my lands, or for my daughter, as you have, John." He rests his hand on the bastard's shoulder and the serpent rears its head. "I am proud to call you son."

Poison fangs sink in his heart.

"No."

And John runs.

:-x-:

Run.

Run.

When John fled before, he had been running towards a future, towards freedom. Now he runs to escape the past. To escape himself.

Who is this man whose life he has stolen? Who everyone is able to forgive?

He has played many roles —

Son. Prince.

Brother. Bastard.

Champion. Commander.

Traitor. Penitent.

Villain.

Husband. Father.

He does not know himself. He is not Hero's tamed lover or Messina's dutiful lord. He is not the children's doting father or Leonato's worthy son-in-law. Nor is he the man who proudly declared himself a villain and threw an innocent woman to the wolves.

No. He is some mongrel crossbreed — just as they jeered when he was a child.

Everything and nothing.

Always nothing.

He is not running in any set direction, over the fields. His boots skid in the mud but he runs on. It is like being on the battlefield again; if he closes his eyes he can hear the trample of hooves, the cries of dying men. Are those bulges in the grass mounds or bodies?

He slows. Air scrapes through his lungs and he pants, staggering towards a tall tree. There is a large branch cracked on the ground and he halts, considering the splintered end. He marks on the tree where the branch must have broken. Easy enough for a small child to climb. Dangerous to fall.

He crumples, bowing his head between his knees. He exhales, flopping backwards onto the grass, and stares into cornflower sky.

:-x-:

John has not run far from the villa and it is not a long trek back, but he pauses several times at war with himself. As he enters the courtyard, he is greeted by the Spinone Italianos introduced to him before as Belch and Crab.

He crouches down, ruffling their shaggy heads. "Hello, scruffs."

"JOHN!" He looks up, standing as Hero charges towards him, barrelling into his chest. "KNAVE! BLAGGARD!" She pounds her fists against his front. "I should push you into the pond!"

Dishevelled curls spill across her shoulders, a robe hastily tied over her nightgown. Her eyes are wet with crimson streaks.

"Wretch. Ass." She clutches his shirt. "How dare you. How dare you! After what you said last night. And then you were gone from your room — and father said — he said you had run—" her voice splinters on a sob, "John — please! Do not forsake me! Do not forsake our children! Please!"

He catches her hands, pressing chapped lips to delicate fingers. "Forgive me, lady. I did not mean you distress."

Her hands tremble in his. "Do not — do not run. Please. I cannot — John. Stay with me. We will figure this out together. Just stay. Please."

She cups his cheek and his lashes shutter, leaning into her touch. "I am not — I am not the man you married."

"Oh John," she smoothes his beard, "You are so much more than you realise."

Brambles scratch in his throat. "After all I have done. Hero — None of this is right!"

"No. No, it is not — it is not right. No. The person who knows me best, knows me not. Who — who loves me most — loves me not."

Her voice cracks, the sound slicing through him. Crystals form in the corners of her eyes and he hates that he put them there. Hates that he has hurt her. Again.

"None of this — none of this is right. But I — I believe in us." Her voice builds in strength, the whisper of her fingers along his hairline. "I believe — I believe we can move forward from this. We can overcome it. I believe we can. I believe in us."

He shivers and his hand settles over hers. "And if my memories do not return?"

She trembles out a breath. "It is your heart, I love. It is your mind and your stubborn will. John—" her thumb presses into his skin, "Do not test me. I fought for you once and I will fight for you again. With or without your memories, I love you. Even if — even if you do not — even if you cannot — love me."

Her face fractures on those last fragile words though she tries to hide it. Something unfurls in his chest, its vines weaving between his ribs, constricting his lungs. He lowers her hand from his cheek and crushes his mouth to the centre of her palm. Her fingers feather across his cheek and he almost chokes.

"Hero — you deserve more — more than I can offer you."

"There is no price on what you offer me."

He swallows, squeezing her hand. "I will not pretend to you. I cannot be the man you want me to be."

She shakes her head and she looks so tired. "Just be you, John. That is all I want. Just be you. Infuriation that you are."

His lips graze her knuckles. "You are good, lady. If you will permit me, I would know you better."

The corner of her mouth curves. "I think I can condescend to your request, on behalf of us having three children together."

"My mind must be muddled, for I swear it was your cousin who thought herself the wit."

She laughs, weak but genuine, a slyness to her features that sends a frisson down his spine. "I am a poor match for my cousin. But you, my lord — I am a match for you."

Her lashes droop and she leans into him. A string goes taut in John's chest, drawing him towards her. His mouth is dry, her breath flutters across his chin. He lowers his head, eyes fixed on her lips, his pulse racing as she strains against him, rising to meet him —

The dogs bark.

John lurches backwards, looking around.

Margaret flaps her hands at the barking dogs. "Ssshhh! Ssshhh!" She notices Hero and John staring and pastes on a smile. "Oh, my lord and lady. Good morning! I — um — apologies for intruding."

"It is neither the first nor the worst time, Margaret," Hero answers, amusement tugging at her lips and John drags his gaze away, shoving all musings of how they might taste into a locked crate and hurling it into the ocean.

"True, my lady. True." Her knowing grin has John squirming before her expression settles into something more appropriate. "The children were wondering where their parents had gone."

Hero sighs, tucking a curl behind her ear. "And what excuse did you devise?"

"I told them you were planning a treasure hunt."

"Oh, that is good. But we have hidden no treasure."

Margaret winks. "No fear. Conrade is resolving that now."

Hero surges forward, clutching the serving woman's hands. "Margaret, you are a jewel. What we would do without you, I know not."

"Dear Hero, you shall never have to find out." She pecks her mistress on the cheek and saunters away.

John crosses to Hero's side and she turns her smile on him. His step falters.

"That spares us the morning."

"You forgave Margaret."

"I forgave you," she reminds him gently. "Margaret never meant me harm. She was an unwitting pawn in the whole affair."

"You forgave Conrade too."

She appears to measure her words, her voice low and careful. "There are few you trust and fewer you call friend. I did not mind him becoming part of our household. Indeed, he has made a pleasant addition and brings Margaret much joy."

John frowns. "What has Margaret to do with Conrade?"

"Well… they are married."

He gawks. "You are jesting? Your waiting woman married my conspirator?"

Not even the favoured one.

Hero's smile widens, dimples adorning her cheeks. "I do not jest. They married a couple of years after us and have sons around Leo's age. They play together often."

John tries to imagine his saturnine companion married to the vivacious serving woman. "I did not expect Conrade to share Borachio's tastes."

Hero chokes. His gaze whips to her, blanching at the thoughtlessness of his comment.

"I should not have—"

She waves her hand, laughing. "Oh, do not censor yourself for me. I enjoy your blunt speech. Upon it, I have sharpened my wit."

It takes a moment to recover from this unexpected reaction. "It is a wonderful wit. But that was crass of me."

Her fingers brush his own. "I would not have you muzzled for the world."

He dips his head. "My lady."

Her face is soft and knowing. Her words from the previous morning echo in his head: "I know you. And I love you."

"They are a strange match, but a good one. He makes her happy." She holds his gaze, unflinching.

He stares back into those hazel orbs ringed in green. There is gold dust in her eyes.

"Does he?"

"Yes."

Shrieks of laughter shake the tranquil morning as the children are set loose upon the garden.

Hero tugs his hand. "Come, we should secure breakfast while they are distracted."

John follows her into the villa, their fingers intertwined. In his chest, the vines shiver and creep.

Chapter Text

"You have a rare heart, to forgive as you do."

They walk through the garden, their arms brushing as they move. He should place a more appropriate distance between them, but his body will not obey, gravitating to hers.

"It is not so hard when the remorse is sincere," she replies, her voice soft. "Revenge is what caused the trouble and I wanted no more of that."

"You are wise," John murmurs. Once he might have called her naïve, but — he saw to that, didn't he?

She gives a wry smile. "When you besmirched my name, you made me like yourself. I understood why you acted as you did. And I forgave you, because that was my power. Everything that came after was a surprise. Though not unwelcome."

Her fingers flit across his knuckles and he stares, unbelieving. "I cannot fathom how I convinced you I was worth your attention."

"Oh, a dearth of good conversation partners."

John snorts. "Alack! If I were the better option."

She grins. "You were the lesser evil, if you can believe it."

"I could not, if it were not you who spoke it."

She gives him a warm look and turns her gaze back to the path. "No one else understood what it was to be ruined on a word. Then put back together again, forever altered. Everyone could see the cracks and still acted as if nothing had changed. As if I had not changed."

She runs her fingers along the hedge, pausing where the emerald leaves turn a tawny brown.

"Then there was you and this strange bond between us. You saw the world as I did. We were the same. Only when I was with you did I feel like a real person, instead of someone's idea of who I should be. You made me feel as if I could choose for myself. You would never ask for my forgiveness, but your regret was the truest of anyone's. You did not sway me with tearful laments, but an honest effort to make amends. I knew if I asked you to stay away, you would, and it made me want you all the nearer. Through your actions, I saw the truth of your character, and from then… I was captivated."

His heart thuds against his ribs. Somehow, he keeps his voice composed, "The rabbit hopping into the fox's jaws."

She spins, eyes sparking. "You cast yourself as the hunter, but truly I led the chase. You, my dour fox, heard the rustling in the bushes and mistook a rabbit for the breeze."

"Can you fault my wonderment?" He sweeps his eyes across her gentle features, admiring the fan of her lashes, the blush in her cheeks, those plush carmine lips parted in a smile. "No one would have wagered on us becoming friends."

"You do make things difficult for yourself, dearest." Her fingers flutter across his chin, her gaze turning wistful. "What might have been… if you were not so blinded by revenge, and I, less in awe of a soldier's glory…"

Not for the first time, Claudio's name dangles between them. John dares not utter it. Lest the very mention break whatever spell has Hero caressing him so.

"But we are here and I would not change a single line of our story."

John does not reply; his own pages blank.

"MAMMMAAA!"

Leo rounds the corner, running as fast as his little legs will allow, pursued by a mob of chickens snapping at his heels.

Hero releases an exasperated cry. "Leo! I have told you not to bother the birds!"

"MAMMA!" The boy wails, making a beeline for her.

She hurries forward, scooping him into her arms and out of reach of the irate fowl who halt before her. She pins them with a stern look and the hens ruffle their feathers, waddling off. John watches them go, mirth mixing with wonder.

"You are safe, my little lion." Hero cradles her son, giving him a chiding look. "Now promise me, you will not pester the chickens again. Or try to steal their eggs."

Leo pouts. "I was looking for treasure." She arches an eyebrow and he groans. "I promise."

"Good, now keep your promise. I might not always be there to protect the brave knight from the ferocious dragons." She swings him around, making him giggle. Then, lowering him safely to the ground, she slips her hand through his. "Come, we shall find the others."

Leo beams, reaching out a hand to John. "Papà too."

John stiffens, regarding the outstretched hand.

"It will not bite," Hero teases.

He throws her a narrow look that widens her grin and accepts the boy's hand. Together, they set off, Leo swinging between them, gushing about dragons and treasure. Over his head, Hero smiles at John and his chest tightens, ivy filling his lungs.

:-x-:

The days pass like this, taking his cues from others. John performs his part, feeling like an actor without the script, forced to improvise. Now and then he recalls something, a fleeting déjà vu, as intangible as moonlight. There are things he just knows — the name of a workhand, the average harvest, where a book sits on a shelf, or the vegetables Leo will not eat. The past dogs his heels, shadows flittering at the corners of his vision. When he turns to pin them down, they evaporate like smoke. The harder he grasps, the less he holds.

The doctor removes his bandages, checking on him regularly. When John tells him that his memories have not returned, the crinkle in his brow deepens but he does not appear much surprised.

"The mind is complex. Healing will take time."

(John does not hurl the water jug at the wall, but it takes several deep breaths to resist the urge.)

He feels like an intruder in someone else's life. He keeps waiting for someone to shout impostor! But no one does. Instead, they all smile, pleased to have him there, welcoming him into their fold. Whenever someone references an instance he does not remember, sympathy will flash across their faces and John will bite his tongue, to prevent from lashing out. These days, his mouth is full of blood.

It is no one's fault, which makes it all the worse. There is nowhere to direct his rage and frustration boils beneath his skin. He loathes to be pitied, to be disadvantaged, others knowing more about himself than he. It reminds him of the courtiers whispering behind his back as a child. He hates this sense of helplessness, that he has no control over his own life; a puppet dancing to someone else's jig.

It is easier with the children. He has no past guilt to grapple with them and fewer expectations. They do not understand the extent of what he has forgotten, only that sometimes he gets confused and needs to be reminded. Children are always happy to tell adults when they are wrong. As long as he continues to play their games and do what they ask, there are no complaints, and John becomes more confident with every interaction.

He never thought long on the sort of father he would make. With his reckless ambition and blatant disrespect, he half expected to be dead before ever siring an heir. He resolved to be a better father than his own, which is no great feat. His children would be safe and cared for, he would be fair in his discipline and treat them equally. None of his children would be bastards.

The only thing he was not sure he could offer was love; there being so little of that in his life. But when the children spin to him, with bright eyes and adoring grins, something in him twists, clicking into place, and he finds himself returning their smiles.

He will do this, he resolves. For them, he will try.

:-x-:

"What are you boys up to?"

Leo and Tonio are huddled with Conrade and Margaret's sons (Matteo and Samuele) around an intricately crafted army of soldiers.

"War!" Leo proudly exclaims.

"Hmm." John crouches among them — in time to prevent Tonio from shoving one of the wooden horses into his mouth. "And what is your strategy?"

"Kill all the enemies!"

He hums. "An effective plan. But have you considered this…"

:-x-:

"Teaching the boys to make war?" Hero coos as they work through the household ledgers.

"Just some advice to make their game more interesting."

She sighs, her face clouding. "I pray they never know a real war."

He rests his hand over hers, their shoulders rubbing together. "Be assured, I am far too occupied with all this to cause my brother further trouble."

He gestures to the books and parchment spread before them. She laughs, turning so her front presses along the length of him, her fingers tiptoeing up his arm.

"If ever this is not enough to distract you, my dear rogue, I can certainly think of a few things that will."

Her breath tickles his ear and he shivers. His fingers twitch, but she twirls out of reach before he can react, sapphire skirts rippling like waves. His hands clench around polished mahogany, the table edge biting into his palms.

She picks out another book. "Taxes…"

John groans.

:-x-:

As promised, Leonato advises John on the governance of the estate and Antonio gives him a tour of their lands, introducing him to the workers and the local farmers. But it is Hero who manages the running of the vineyard, pouring over ledgers and brokering with the local traders. She talks him through procedures and finances, asking for his input, pointing out what innovations were his own, what they came up with together.

Most men do not want their wives embroiled in their affairs. They do not trust them with any important decisions. John has always believed most men are idiots. He is less surprised by Hero's capability than the swell of pride he feels watching her take command, this remarkable woman and natural leader.

How she and her cousin might have shaped the world if they were not disadvantaged by their sex…

Though he cannot pretend he does not appreciate this softer vessel. He wants to crush his mouth to hers with each display of brilliance. He never suspected stock inventories could arouse such feeling and it is mortifying how much restraint he has to exert. Instead, he focuses those energies on projecting himself back in time, so he can box his past self around the ears and order him to open his eyes and see what perfection stands before him.

But — watching Hero tuck the children into bed, regaling them with another story, her smile aglow with all the colours of a summer twilight — he is consoled. He figured it out eventually.

:-x-:

John knocks on Hero's door the morning she does not come down for breakfast, calling out so she knows it is him. He waits for her assent before entering and finds her seated in bed, knees drawn to her chest beneath the covers.

She smiles through tired eyes as he approaches, "Good morning."

"Good morning." He crosses to her side, noting her wan complexion. "Are you unwell?"

She shakes her head, curls spilling over her shoulders and across the pillows. "Nothing unnatural… it is the time of my bleeding."

"Ah."

John is not an idiot. He has known of women's monthly bleeding from an earlier age than most. But rarely has he reason to discuss it.

He rocks on his feet, uncertain. "Is… uhh… is the pain great?"

She gives a short nod. "Normally, I manage, but today is particularly bad."

"Can I do anything? Bring you anything?"

Her smile blooms and she hugs her arms to her front. "Will you be alright? I will rise as soon as I am able. You can manage the estate, that is no fear. But the children and my father — "

He touches her shoulder. "At ease. I promise no fires and no scheming. You can trust me."

She leans her head on his arm. "I do."

He stills, gazing down at her, his voice softening. "I will bring you a book, so the boredom does not kill you."

Her answering smile contorts in a wince, breathing sharply. "It is not — the boredom that will — ugh — kill me."

Concern thunders through him. "Are you sure you are well?"

She offers a weak smile. "Sadly, this is nothing unusual."

"We men are so ignorant of the strength of women." He brushes the hair from her face. "Send for me if you need of anything."

She catches his hand, pressing it to her cheek, her lips grazing his knuckles. "Thank you, John."

He nods and leaves. Not until he is out of the room does he breathe again, dragging his hand over his jaw.

As promised, he brings her a selection of books, something telling him the ones she likes best. Along with them, he places a bowl of strawberries, which earned a smile from Ursula when he made the request. He takes care of matters in her absence, speaks with Leonato, chuckles alongside Antonio, and leads the children on an expedition around the garden, picking flowers, which they then place at their mother's bedside.

By late afternoon, Hero is well enough to join them and she partakes in the usual over-supper cheer. That night, John leads the bedtime tale — one with a cunning fox, foolish huntsmen, and not a single prince. Squashed upon the bed, the children draped across her, Hero smiles, and warmth spreads through John, his skin fitting like his own.

:-x-:

The day is golden, the sky a cloudless blue. They spread their blankets across the hillside, breaking out the picnics. The adults laugh together, sharing food and wine, while the children chase each other through the wild grass. John finds his tongue loosened, contributing to the conversation as he lounges next to Hero, chuckling with the others.

The peace is shattered as Leo and Clarissa come crashing onto the blanket.

"Mamma! Clarissa tripped me! Look, I am bleeding!"

"That is not true! I never touched him!"

Their squabbling disturbs Tonio, who until then had been happily munching on grapes in his mother's lap. Now, the babe begins to wail and Hero flusters between her three squalling children.

"Come on, howler. Your siblings have your mother under siege." John scoops Tonio into his arms, carrying him off to the side.

He hushes the babe, bouncing him as Hero has shown him. Tonio screams and hurls his grapes at his father. Realising his snack is gone, the toddler's wails increase, his face turning puce.

John winces. "I see you have my temper."

There is a snort from Conrade's direction, but John does not look up from his son.

"I know, I know. You have a rage that blazes fiercer than the fires of Troy. But take care not to scorch yourself in your anger. It is a beautiful day and the company pleasing. It would be a shame to waste it in ill-humour."

Tonio huffs but calms, whether from his father's soothing tone or he does indeed glean some meaning. The babe slumps against John's shoulder and he rocks him, returning to the picnic. Clarissa and Leo are gone to wreak havoc with the other children and Hero smiles as he sits down.

"Thank you."

"Of course."

He hands another bunch of grapes to the squirming Tonio, who snatches them eagerly, shoving them into his pudgy cheeks.

The children run shrieking as Antonio lumbers after them, hunched over with his arms raised, surprisingly swift for his age. "RAWR! I AM A HUNGARY OGRE AND I AM GOING TO GOBBLE UP ALL THE CHILDREN! RAAWWWRRR!"

Ursula comes to their rescue, prodding Antonio with her parasol. "Back! Back! You nasty ogre!"

He recoils, toppling to his knees. "AH! No! I am sorry, I was just so hungry!"

The laughing children take advantage of his defeat, piling on top of him and tickling him.

"OH! OH NO! NOT TICKLES! TICKLES ARE MY WEAKNESS! AAAHHHH! NOOO!"

"His acting is improving," Conrade remarks.

"It could scarcely become worse," chuckles Leonato.

"He keeps us entertained," Hero says kindly.

"Ever the diplomat," John teases in her ear.

She sends him a warm look. "One of us should be."

"Remember when that acting troupe visited a year or so ago? They cast him as a tree," Margaret titters.

"I remember his performance was wooden," Conrade utters.

"OH, FOUL!" Margaret swats his arm. "From the very mouth I kiss."

Conrade grins, giving her a look like he wants to kiss her now.

"I thought he was the donkey," Leonato muses.

"That was another year. You recall that peculiar play about the faeries…"

John listens to them reminisce, the grapes souring on his tongue, and reaches for the wine.

"Have I said what Beatrice wrote in her last letter?" Hero chimes in. "It is most amusing, Benedick has been teaching the girls to swim…"

:-x-:

John's head is a maelstrom, his temper like the tide. One moment he is content, sitting in the garden while the children play, or laughing with the other workers as they tend to the vines. Another, that restless serpent has its fangs in his throat and he locks his jaw to prevent the spit of venom.

Hero senses these shifts in his mood, steering the conversation onto another topic, or inventing some excuse that allows him to slip away, the others distracted. Her manipulation is so subtle, it took a while for John to notice what she was doing.

He is grateful.

He is incensed.

That she see through him so clearly, that she seeks to manage him like a raging animal —

He wants to bite down on those slender fingers that flit across his skin, combing back his hair. He wants to bury his face in her neck and drown in her scent. He wants to tear down the curtains and rip up the floorboards and, most of all, he wants to scream.

"Papà! Papà!" Clarissa and Leo chorus, racing up to him and tugging on his sleeves. "Will you come tell us a story?"

John grits his teeth, his head pounding. "What?"

Clarissa falters at his brusque tone. "We… we wanted… will you tell us… the… the Cat in the Boots?"

Ice spears his blood at the mention of the bedtime tale. He hears the cadence of his mother's voice, remembers the weight of a bone-hand limp in his own.

"No."

"But—"

"No," he barks and the children shrink back. Disgust crashes through him and he pinches his eyes shut, muttering a gruff, "Not tonight."

He stalks down the hall before he can worsen the damage. As he goes he hears the hurt confusion in Leo's voice and Clarissa's cutting rebuke. His nails bite into his palm and he barricades himself in his study.

Hero finds him there, wearing a hole through the floor. "John."

He stiffens — the beast inside him raises its head, scenting prey. She steps inside, gentling the door closed behind her, and approaching him like a skittish horse.

He turns his back to her. "Go."

"And leave you with your thoughts?" The floorboards creak as she closes the distance between them. His shoulders tremble, tensed. "You are not alone, John. I am here."

He whirls, catching her hand before she can touch him. "I am alone. In this, I am alone." Hazel eyes stare back at him and he sighs, dropping her hand. "Go. I do not want to hurt you."

"You would never — "

"Hero," he cuts her off, slumping — he is tired, so, so tired — "I hurt you every day. I see it in your face. Every day I do not remember."

Her breath hitches. He looks away so he does not have to watch the pain split across her face.

"The weeks are passing and my memories have not returned. Soon it will be a month."

"It matters not," she insists, reaching for him. "John, it matters not."

He captures her wrists, holding them away from him. "You cannot say those ten years do not matter."

She winces and he releases her. But it is his words and not his hands that bruise her. "Yes, of course — of course they matter — of course I cherish them and am grateful but — but memory cannot hold a torch to the present." She buries her fingers in his shirt, the candlelight glimmering in her eyes. "I would burn my past for a future with you."

He clasps the edge of the desk. "And here I stand, a husk of ash."

She inhales sharply. "And—? And—? Is it worth the trade?"

"Hero…" he expels an aching breath, bowing his head to rest on hers. "I cannot remember our children… their births… their first words… their first steps. I cannot remember building our — this life together. That moment you agreed to be my wife. My only memories of you in a wedding dress is that cursed day. So how can I trust — how can I trust any of this is real? That it is mine."

Her fingers tighten in his shirt and he folds his arms around her shivering frame. "It is not fair."

His fingers glide through her corkscrew curls. "You are so lovely. And I am Tantalus reaching for the apple…"

If he allows himself to want, to hope, all this will wither in his palm.

She shoves from him, eyes wet and furious. "I cannot keep having the same conversation! You cannot keep breaking my heart! You are not the only one who can quote the classics, John. I am like Sisyphus, and you, my boulder-brained husband. Every time I think we have moved forward, you roll back down the hill, crushing me in your wake and I cannot — I cannot keep doing this!"

She makes a sound like a dam collapsing and fat, angry tears blotch her face.

"I am the patient wife and the doting mother and the dutiful daughter and mistress to the whole estate and I could balance all these things when you were there to support me too but now there is rot in our foundations and I do not know what to do!" Her voice pitches near hysterical as her breathing comes too fast, too shallow.

Panicked, he reaches for her. "Hero — !"

She recoils, folding in on herself. "It is not fair! We were happy! So gloriously happy! Why has this happened! Why! Oh God! WHY!"

He takes her in his arms and they crumple in a heap on the floor.

Hero whimpers into his chest. "It is not fair, it is not fair."

"I know, sweet… I know." He feathers kisses across her brow, cradling her face, and wiping away her tears. "You are perfect. I promise. You are perfect …I do not deserve you."

"John…" she sighs, ragged and frustrated.

She kisses him.

He stills.

Her mouth is warm honey, pulling him under treacle flumes. Some distant part of his brain tells him to close his eyes but John is mesmerised by the sight of her red lips pulsing against his own. She is so close, freckled and beautiful. She kisses fierce and gentle and agonised and adoring, like Hero is pouring her whole self into it and —

She pulls back, a faint pop as they part. He leans forward, chasing her lips, but her hand stops him, fanning over his cheek. "I do not mean to belittle your plight. What you are coping with — is terrifying. But please — I cannot live in this limbo — waiting, hoping you will let me in. Only to slam into another wall. Please, John, please. Do not waste the present grieving the past. I love you, here and now."

He stiffens at the words; but even as his body turns to stone, he feels his resolve crumbling. Her lips linger on his temple — the fractures spreading — then she rises, gathering her skirts and climbing from his lap.

He watches, dazed, as she moves to the door. "Make peace with yourself, John. Or you shall forever be at war."

Then she is gone in a flutter of skirts and, with her, the sun. Darkness blots the window and John sinks against the bookshelf, raking his hands through his hair and over his face.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

"Prince, what a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you, my son?" Friar Francis greets him, rising from where he had been tending to the chapel garden.

John looks back the way he came before setting his shoulders and facing the Friar. "I — I find myself in need of — um — guidance."

He cringes around the word but the Friar smiles, directing him to a bench. "Of course, that is why I am here. Tell me what troubles you?"

John sits with a grimace. "Are you — did you hear of my accident?"

The Friar's face turns sympathetic. "Indeed, I was relieved to hear it was not more serious. But I understand from Leonato there are gaps in your memory."

"A ten year gap," he informs dryly. "Though some memories have returned… the most vivid end with Hero's resurrection. I believe credit goes to you for that particular miracle."

The Friar struggles through his shock. "I am — so sorry to hear that. I shall pray for your memories to return."

There is a barb on his tongue but John bites it back. "Thank you."

"I understand why you feel lost."

"You will tell me this is all part of God's plan."

The Friar straightens. "The Lord moves in mysterious ways. What seems a curse, may prove a blessing."

John expels a harsh breath. "This is punishment for my crimes."

Friar Francis considers him, his words careful, "Good prince… though you have not often confided in me, I have seen much change in you since our first encounter. I believe you are a righteous man and God, who knows us better than ourselves, will see this and has forgiven your trespasses."

John gazes up at the sun, feeling the scorch of Heaven's eye upon him. "God knows I am unworthy."

"God is steadfast in His love. If you are true in your penitence, He will not withhold His forgiveness."

John scoffs. "I am a bastard. And this the least of my sins."

"Ah," the Friar rubs his beard. "The circumstances of your birth are… unfortunate. But I do not believe this tars your soul. It is action and intent that makes a man."

"I have known few who see it so. No matter. I know which way the scales swing. I have done more evil than good."

"That you can remember." John meets the Friar's innocent gaze. "It is for the Lord to judge, but perhaps I can ease your burden. Confess to me your troubles, so I might grant you pardon."

John grits his teeth. Choosing to come here was challenge enough. He has no fondness for the Church. It tended to be those holiest who most scorned him and his mother — hypocrites themselves. He tolerated the Sunday services but no greater effort than that. John had been told enough times growing up that bastards went to Hell, and, in light of this, any attempt at virtue seemed a waste. No matter what the Friar preaches, John knows the Lord holds no love for him. The feeling is mutual.

But he sees Hero's face, turned towards the chapel ceiling, bathed in iridescent sunlight through the stained-glass windows, her hands clasped together, lips moving in prayer. He hears her voice through the bedroom walls asking God to guide him back to them, to save him from destruction. (His hand hovers over the door handle as her voice dissolves into sobs. The door remains shut but John does not sleep, hearing again that crack in her voice, seeing her lovely face anguished with heartbreak).

He is not a pious man. But for Hero, he will try.

The words come slow, like picking at a crusted scab until the blood begins to ooze. The sun crawls across the sky as John hacks open his rusted armour, pouring out his soul in thick, oily rivulets — Aragon, his childhood, Pedro, his rebellion, Messina, Hero — until finally, finally, the water runs clean.

His heart thunders in the silence that follows as Friar Francis reflects on all John has revealed.

"Thank you, John. For your honesty."

John stares at him, waiting for the blow. But the sword remains teetering overhead.

"The Lord sees your penitence is sincere and pardons your transgressions. Remain humble and dutiful to He, and seek no harm to others, and you will see the pearly gates of Heaven."

John gawks. "Is that — all?"

Friar Francis tilts his head. "What more do you require?"

John slumps back, his eyes flitting to the cross on the chapel and then to his hands. "It should not be this easy."

"Is this easy? Were you not so repulsed by your actions that you choked as you recounted them? Did I mistake that shame, which agonised your features? And still, you laid bare the rough and raw of your soul, offering yourself up to a judgement which lesser men would shrink from." His face softens. "You are not the man who committed those evils. Your remorse is earnest and your redemption earned. But you do not need the forgiveness of the Lord, or I, or anyone else. It is you who must forgive yourself, John. Only then will you have peace."

("Make peace with yourself, John. Or you shall forever be at war.")

He inhales, a sharp ache in his breast, and breathes out. It does not dislodge those poisoned fangs.

He stands. "Thank you for your time, Friar."

The Friar's smile is gentle. "Of course. I am here if ever you wish to speak again."

:-x-:

John strides from the chapel, his thoughts no less turbulent than before. Walking back to the villa, he plucks a rose from a bush, the brambles scratching his hand. Its pink heart blooms into white petals, a sweet scent about it. He grasps the stem in his fist.

As he travels through the rows, he spies Hero on the path ahead, conversing with some of the workers. He halts and waits for her to notice him. She does almost immediately, finishing her conversation and gliding to him.

"No one has seen you since breakfast. What did you find that occupied you so?" Her voice is light but there is a nervousness about her, a shadow of that first morning he ran.

He presents the rose. "For you."

Her eyes brighten, accepting the token. "Oh, sweet. Thank y— John! You are bleeding!"

He follows her gaze to his hand and sees the spout of blood where one of the thorns must have pierced him. In truth, he had noticed the pain, but had done nothing to alleviate it. It was a grounding ache and felt like retribution.

He says none of this to Hero. Whether or not she guesses, she does not comment. Instead, she fixes the rose in her hair, pulling out a handkerchief and bandaging his wound. "Oh, my wild heart, you must take better care of yourself."

She cradles his wrist, his pulse quickening beneath her fingertips.

"I spoke with Friar Francis."

Her eyes jump to his, incredulous. "You did?"

He offers a wry smile. "I thought I could use some spiritual guidance."

"And — did it help?"

He considers, flexing his hand and smothering a hiss at the sharp sting. "As an amputation might help the wounded soldier."

She frowns as crimson stains the makeshift bandage. "I am surprised you sought the Friar's counsel." Her fingers trace his hand. "I hope it brought some relief."

He has no response. His gaze is drawn to her lips, remembering the night before and how she felt against him.

The silence stretches too long and he snaps back to his senses. "How was your morning?"

She levels him with a shrewd look but tells him what she has been doing. As they walk, the tips of their fingers catch — and hold. At their approach, several dogs bound towards them and John bends to pet the excited animals.

"I do not remember there being this many hounds when I was here last."

"We have acquired a number over the years," Hero replies, snuggling the bundles of fur — and no, no, John is not envious. "They are such dear creatures and the children adore them."

"I had a dog… when I was a child."

Hero looks at him. He realises what he said and stiffens. Her expression sobers — so perhaps he has told her this tale before — but her gaze is encouraging. His defences are still in tatters from his earlier confession, unable to hold back the words which pour from him now…

"I found him, this mangy stray, half-starved and missing an eye, and I took him in. He was mine. This strange, irritable creature, with a bark greater than a runt his size had any right to. An outcast, like me, and the most loyal companion I ever had." He takes a breath, remembering that dog. How much he loved him. How much he had been loved in return. "I — I named him Soldier. We were inseparable, we did everything together. He was my first true friend."

His only true friend.

Hero's hands are warm on his cheeks and he registers the damp trapped between them.

"Let's retire," her voice is gentle, "There is too much pollen out here."

They retreat inside. He does not say anything more about Soldier or his fate. He suspects she knows from the tender way she guides him through the house. When they reach his private study she asks if he would like company.

He hesitates —

Shakes his head. Her eyes flicker but she makes no protest, slipping from the room…

— too late, his hand closes around empty air and he slams his head against the doorpost, groaning. Alone once more.

:-x-:

No rest for the wicked. John lies awake, sick with the sight of his bedroom ceiling, the words of the Friar, stampeding through his mind.

He sees Hero in her wedding gown, limp in her cousin's arms. His mother laid out in bed as he clutches her lifeless hand. Soldier bucks and whines, carried away as he is pinned to the ground. He staggers over the corpses strewn across the blood-soaked battlefield, the smell of rotting flesh suffocates the air and a swarm of black feathers descend...

A whimper, cuts like steel through flesh.

Is cold the same as unfeeling or just the absence of warmth?

The sound comes again. Another trick of the mind. But then again. And there! Again!

He looks at Hero's door, heart beating a bruise as he strains to hear those muffled sobs. But, no. They are not coming from her.

John's thoughts lurch to the children and he scrambles out of bed, throwing on a robe. Many a night, Tonio has woken screaming, spurring his mother to his side (Ursula will then insist she can tend to the toddler herself, that the mistress deserves her rest, and Hero will refuse, unable to leave any of her children in distress). Usually, Tonio's wailing starts Leo off but tonight both are silent as John treads past their door. He creeps on to Clarissa's room, the soft sniffling growing more pronounced.

"Clarissa?"

The sobs cut off. "Papà?"

He pushes the door open, slipping inside. His daughter is tucked in bed, face streaked with tears and that rag-doll, Dogberry, cradled in her arms.

He crouches next to the bed. "Clarissa… what is wrong?"

"I — I had a — a bad dream."

"Oh? Will you… tell me about it?"

"We — um — we were — having a picnic, all of us together — " she hiccups, sniffling, " — I was chasing Leo through the bushes and then he — he um — he disappeared and the trees rose up around me and I was in a woods — and I could — I could hear you laughing — I knew you were at the picnic but I could not find you — and — and the trees were growing bigger and there were all these shadows — and I could — I could hear beasts in the woods — lions and wolves and bears — and I — I was running, calling for you and Mamma — but then I — I was up high in the treetops and I could touch the sky and the tree was swaying and there were wolves circling below — and then and then the branch broke and I was falling — and I woke up."

She shivers, Dogberry crushed under her chin. John places a hand on her shoulder. "It is alright. You are safe. You are here. I am here."

"Papà!" She throws herself against him.

John freezes. Then slowly, he wraps his arm around her. "Sshh, sshh. It is alright, I promise. It was a bad dream. You are safe. You mother and I are here. You are safe."

"What if — what if I get lost?"

"We will find you," he assures, stroking her hair. "We would not rest until we found you."

"What if you are lost too?"

His hand stills and he takes a breath. "I will find my way home to you."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

This seems to satisfy her and she snuggles into his chest. He holds her until her breathing calms. In this quiet hour, time stands still. His heart thumps a warm beat.

"Do you think you can sleep now?" He murmurs, parting from her.

She shuffles deeper under her covers. "Will you sing to me?"

John cringes. "I — do not have a voice for singing.

"You have before. Pleeeaassee?"

He sighs, resolve crumbling, and hums the starting notes of a lullaby. It has been many, many years since he heard this song, yet the tune rises to his lips without effort, the lyrics limping after, faint and muddled, but gaining strength until it is no longer his voice he hears, but the echo of his mother's. As a child, he never realised what a melancholy song this was, but she had sung it to him every night with a smile. He comes to the end, clinging to those final, fleeting notes and his mother's ghost fades back into memory. A drop of warmth slips down his cheek.

Clarissa slumps against her pillows. "Thank you, Papà."

Hiding his alarm at the feelings the song has stirred in him, John stands. "Goodnight, princess. Dream of your kingdom and all the adventures you are yet to have."

He leans down and kisses his daughter's forehead, then turns to the door.

"Wait!" He whirls back. Clarissa thrusts her rag-dog towards him. "You have to wish Dogberry goodnight too."

John frowns at the toy, wondering not for the first time how it came by its name. But it is too late an hour for protest, so he sighs and addresses the stuffed creature, "Goodnight Dogberry."

Satisfied, Clarissa draws the toy back to her chest, eyelids drooping. "Goodnight Papà, sleep well."

John lingers in the doorway; the silver tracks have dried on her cheeks, cherub features relaxing into sleep. He leaves, silent, so as not to disturb her. Eyes adjusting to the dark hall, it takes a moment for his exhausted brain to comprehend who is before him.

Hero leans on the opposite wall, arms tucked behind her back. "Is all well?"

Slowly, he nods. "Just a bad dream."

"Thank you."

"Of course." Midnight curls tumble across pale shoulders; she is clad in a gown of wispy moonlight. His speech comes sluggish. "You should — uhh — you should rest."

She smiles kindly and her hand slides into his own. "We both should."

Warmth pulses where their palms touch, chasing out the cold. His fingers flex and intertwine with hers. She keeps her eyes on him as she leads him down the hall, walking backwards. Outside their respective bedrooms, he pauses. She reaches behind to open her door, eyes beckoning.

His breath catches, his feet turning to stone while his legs shake like the willow. "Hero…"

She tsks. "Do not concern yourself with my virtue now. It is far too late and far too early for such pretences. I mean only to sleep and I will rest better with you beside me — as, I think, will you."

He searches her face for any hesitation but she holds his gaze, her longing bare — as he suspects his own must be. His stomach twists, guilt and desire mixing like water and oil. He steps across the threshold.

Hero floats in the darkness, a spirit guiding him into the beyond. His knees hit the mattress and, like a sailor lured by the siren's song, he crawls after her, onto the bed. Her hand slips from his grasp and seizes his shirt, sinking them both into the sheets.

They lie in parallel, facing one another, the space between them less than an arm's length and as vast as a canyon. Her fingers brave the distance, smoothing along his cheekbone. Her breath flutters his lashes, prickling his beard, and he watches as her lips part around those soft inhales and exhales.

"John…" his name warms his skin "...you have beautiful eyes."

A sound escapes him — a laugh or a whimper. "Hero…"

The universe dissolves around them, gobbled up by the aether, and there they hang, suspended amid the cosmos, and Hero is starlight, luminous, intangible starlight…

…and John is a sinner who has found faith. Never has he known a reverence like this. Why seek absolution from the immaterial when all of Heaven's light is bound in her mortal flesh…

"Hero…" Her name falls like a prayer and he shifts so his lips are but a whisper from her own. "Hero… "

She surges forward and offers him salvation.

Chapter Text

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

She is beautiful.

And he should not be here.

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

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

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

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

"Mmm, that feels nice."

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

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

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

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

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

Holds her.

And wills the sun never to rise.

:-x-:

"How does one woo a woman, Conrade?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

:-x-:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What he remembers —

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

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

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

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

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

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

…and the silence, thereafter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

:-x-:

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

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

"You have to."

"Why?"

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

"So?"

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

"That's — that's stupid!"

"Is not!"

"Is too!"

"IS NOT!"

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

"Yes, I will be queen!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I AM A BRAVE KNIGHT!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What curse?" Leo demands.

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

Face down in the grass, John twitches.

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

"True love's kiss, of course."

Of course. John smothers a cough.

"Go on, Mamma."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Clarissa! That is unkind!"

"Sorry, Mamma!" The girl shouts.

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

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

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

"Wretch."

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

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

After all, he already has the world.

Chapter Text

With the click of the door Hero's mouth is on his and she presses John against the wall — a boldness he would not have believed her capable of upon their first meeting. Lightning scorches through his blood.

Since their moment in the garden there has been a charge between them. Their eyes drawn to one another, over and over. By the time they were seated for supper, John's knuckles were white around his wine glass, anticipating the moment they could be alone together. To what end, he did not know. Only that he felt as if a string were tied around his rib, binding him to Hero, as taut as a garrotte.

He is amazed no one noticed their tension. Or maybe they were too polite to comment. The evening crawled by. If questioned, he would not be able to recall what was discussed, but his answers must have been satisfactory (it is useful to have a taciturn reputation). But they are here now: the wall, cool and solid against his back. Hero, warm and soft as she presses into him.

"John, John, John," she gasps against his jaw, like he is breath itself, and his head spins, drunk on sensation —

— her mouth, her voice, the heat of her under his palms —

John is used to wanting — as a bastard he learned how much was forbidden from him and wanted it all the fiercer. He is not used to being wanted. For certain, his body, his looks, his wealth, and title, the favour of a prince — meaningless fumbles in the dark — but not him.

Hero kisses him as if communing with his soul. He is hurtling through the infinite, stars blurring across his vision, showers of gold like ichor in his veins. He clutches her to him, kissing her like the desert wanderer who has found water. Hairpins clatter to the floor as he tangles his hand in her silken tresses. He forgets all other purpose than to worship this woman.

"Hero… Hero…"

Her palm slides down his throat like hot nectar, dipping under his shirt to explore the muscle there. Her fingers glide through the hairs on his chest and his heart thunders beneath her touch.

"John…" she murmurs, this time with command, and John is weak to her will. With her other hand, she grasps his shoulder and walks them backwards, granting shallow kisses while John dives for the ocean. His focus narrows to the taste, the feel of her —

The world tilts from under him and he topples onto the mattress. It takes a second to orient himself and then he has a lapful of Hero, her skirts ruching around her to reveal long, cream legs. He does not have a chance to scrounge a response before her mouth collides with his and he moans, locking his arms around her waist, their hips rubbing together. The friction sends torrents of pleasure up his spine.

"Hero… Hero…"

His heart throbs with need for her.

"Do you want this, John?" She ruts against him. "You can have it — John — you can have me. I am yours. I am yours."

He groans. Her hands withdraw and he cracks open his eyes to see her tearing at the laces of her bodice. Undone, she hurls it somewhere behind. Her focus returns to him, eyes wild and pupils blown, her lips red and swollen, voluminous curls cascading over her bare shoulders where her dress has slipped.

If he had any honour, he would stop this before it goes further. He has done her great wrong and does not deserve to touch her now. But it has been established that he is an honourless bastard, a wretch — and a hot-blooded male. He does not have the strength to refuse this divine temptation.

He fists his hands in the folds of her skirt. "You may have me, my lady — in any way — any way that pleases you."

Her smile unfurls, beautiful, fearless, and she leans forward, tugging at his shirt. "Then I will have you without armour."

She shimmies from his lap — making him groan — and stands, looking expectant.

John stills. Then hurries to undress.

He has never been self-conscious about his appearance, if she wants a show John will give her one. He kicks his boots aside with the rest of his discarded clothes and peels off his shirt, leaving him in his breeches. He no longer has the lean soldier's body of ten years ago, but hard labour has ensured he is not so changed. He stands, holding Hero's appreciative gaze as he undoes the laces of his breeches and shoves them down.

His cock springs free, twitching at Hero's soft inhale. Her smile widens, eyes aglow. She bunches her dress, raising it to her thighs — and falters.

She glances at him, nervous. "I — when you knew me before, I was in the bloom of youth. Now — it is ten years on, and I have birthed three children. I am not… what a man expects the first time with his wife."

"Hero…" John wishes he were better with words. "There is no version of you that is not beautiful."

Hero smiles, confidence renewed, and she sweeps her dress over her head.

John's mouth goes dry.

She is not the flawless, symmetrical beauties rendered in canvas and marble. There are pillows in her flesh, stretch marks, scatterings of freckles and moles, dark hair trailing to the mound which conceals her womanhood. She is not the heavenly deities that adorn the ceilings of grand palaces. She is flesh and blood, and her soul thrums, opalescent, beneath her skin.

"You are perfection."

Hero laughs, a catch in her breath, and she approaches, wrapping her arms around him, her breasts brushing his chest. "You still believe it…"

He dares to place his hands on her hips, fingers sinking into the rolls of flesh. "You are the only thing I believe in."

Raw happiness burns in her gaze, her smile frayed, like something well-loved. "John… John… stars, I want you — all of you." Her fingers tiptoe down his chest. "Let me show you how much…"

He hisses, shuddering as her fingers brush his arousal. "Hero…"

Her smile is saccharine as she crooks her fingers around the base of his cock. He gasps, eyelids fluttering, as all his blood rushes south.

(This is definitely not the maid he met ten years ago.)

She runs her thumb along a thick vein. "I could—"

"No."

He catches her hand, elevating the pressure and allowing some of the blood back into his brain. He is not certain what Hero is offering but he does not want their first time together that he remembers to be her on her knees.

To the back of her hand, he presses a tender kiss. "My pleasure will be in pleasing you."

Her smile softens, her fingers fanning over his beard. "You always please me."

He laces his fingers in her hair and kisses her, fierce and adoring. They fumble onto the bed, rolling across the sheets in a tangle of limbs, open-mouths meeting in hot thrusts. He caresses the spread of plush skin, sparks skittering beneath his palms, catching fire in his blood. He cannot believe he is permitted to touch this woman of moonbeams and stardust. It feels like sacrilege. But there is Hero, arching into him, as eager for his touch as she is to touch him.

Her hands rove over the ridges of his body, sure in their path. She knows all his pressure points and wields them to great advantage, plucking him apart as artfully as the chords of a harp — pressing featherlight kisses behind his ear, tugging at his hair to expose the column of his throat. A groan tears out of him as she sinks her teeth over his pulse. His cock spasms, leaking precome.

"Fuck… Hero…"

The smile she gifts him is pure mischief and he retaliates, cradling her breast and clamping his mouth over the erect nipple. She squeaks, bucking in pleasure as he swirls his tongue around the sensitive bud. He repeats the motion over her other breast, kneading the supple flesh. Beneath him, Hero writhes and moans, her legs flailing at his sides, hooking around his waist, and he grunts as her heel digs into the meat of his arse.

He trails warm kisses down her body, venerating the swell of skin, dipping a kiss to her navel.

"John — please — ohh — yes, John — ack! — yes — " comes her melodious chorus of sighs and laughter as she fists his hair, his head bobbing lower and lower.

Thick, wiry curls tickle his nose and he meets her gaze. Her eyes shine, her smile dissolving with a moan as he raises her leg, dragging his teeth down her milky thigh —

"Please, John — OH!"

— revealing that delicate jewel at her core.

His gaze flits to her again, awaiting permission. Her eyes glisten, pupils fully blown. She tilts her head, both amused and impatient, bidding him to proceed.

The corner of his mouth curves. He presses a single digit to the folds of her entrance —

And swears.

Already, she is dripping.

Hero, Hero, Hero, beats the rhythm in his chest.

"God, you are perfect."

His finger slips inside, and he groans, swearing at the feel of her heat opening around him, inviting him in. He may not remember their past encounters, but there is something to be said for muscle memory as he crooks his finger against the bundle of nerves. Her hand cups his cheek, nails digging into his shoulder, anchoring them both as he works her over, adding another finger, and then, when she is writhing and begging for more, a third.

"Please! Please! PLEASE! JOHN!"

Her little mewls and gasps have his head spinning, as delectable as the squelch of her heat, flooding with yet more juices. She is a goddess and he, a mere mortal, worshipping at her altar. He cannot hold back any longer and offers her his tribute.

Hero squeals as he ducks his head between her thighs, his mouth latching around her slit and plunging his tongue inside, sighing at the taste of her. Around him, Hero convulses, pleading his name, and lifting her hips to meet his thrusts.

He smirks against her folds, unable to deny his pride at her reaction. Too many men think it demeaning to go down on a woman like this. But there is nothing offensive about his wife in the throes of pleasure. It is the symphony of an opera, like witnessing great art. His blood is molten flame —

"Jo-John — I — I— I'm close — oh!"

He tilts his head, acknowledging, and catches her at just the right angle. She gasps, going rigid as she spills into his mouth.

"JOHN!"

He happily laps up her orgasm, like the cat who got the cream, as she trembles around him. Then, Hero shoves him, knocking him flat on his back, and clambers on top, straddling his waist. She bends so their faces are level; his cock straining against her ass.

"Such a wicked tongue," she purrs, tasting herself on his mouth.

His heart thunders at the debauchery of it all, and he cradles her neck, thumb hovering where he can feel her pulse. "I truly have corrupted you."

She laughs, stroking his cheek with a gentle smile. "Nothing from so pure a love could ever be corruption."

He shudders a breath and cranes his neck for a kiss, this one slow and sweet, their bodies melting together like crumpled velvet.

Hero sits up, her hair a tousled halo, cheeks flush with a rose glow, and shuffles down the length of him until she again has his erect cock in hand. She gives him a few pumps before positioning him at her entrance.

"Ready, my love?"

"Hero…" he croaks, "Yesss…"

She smiles and sinks onto him. He throws his head back, a plea escaping him as his cock breaches her tight heat. He knows he will not last long. As soon as he is sheathed fully inside her, Hero begins to rock back and forth. Pleasure rolls through John in waves and he fights not to get swept up in the tide, clasping her hips and surging into her.

"Hero! Ah!"

"John — John — "

He meets her, over and over, fighting to keep his eyes open, to savour the sight of her undone and glorious, bouncing upon him. There are words on his lips but he bites them down, not so much of a wretch as to reveal them now. His climax crashes through him, knocking the air from his lungs and he cries out.

"HERO!"

From underwater, he hears Hero calling his name, and she collapses on his chest. John engulfs her in his arms, rolling them on their sides even as his cock pulses, hot seed spilling inside her. They gasp, chests heaving as they regain their breath, their bodies entwined. John pulls out of her with a hiss, his cock dribbling over her thigh, and slumps against her, panting.

"You… are… devastation."

She smiles, her fingers threading through his hair. "You may have lost your memories, darling. But none of your skill."

He shakes his head. "After ten years of this, it is a wonder I can remember my own name."

She laughs, bright and sweet, bringing their temples together so their noses brush. "It would be hard to forget when I am screaming it over."

"Mmm, there is that."

He pecks the corner of her mouth and stills. Again, those same words rise in his throat, but if he says them now she will mistake them for the afterglow. He wants her to know they are true, always.

She watches him with big, hazel eyes, and he swallows, pressing a kiss to her brow. "I shall fetch a damp cloth."

Her expression flickers and she gives a tired smile. "Thank you."

He extracts himself from her and the stickiness that is threatening to dry, and takes in the sight of her, spread-out on their bed, watching him through hooded eyes.

"You are lovely," he tells her and the smile illuminates her face.

He heads for the basin.

:-x-:

John cannot resist sneaking furtive glances at Hero over the breakfast table. Each time he does, their eyes meet, and she smiles, his heart stuttering.

No one comments, but he does not believe their behaviour is subtle enough to go unnoticed. If he could tear his gaze from his wife, he is confident he will see Ursula and Leonato sharing a knowing grin. As it is, he cannot hold anyone else's gaze, sure the events of the previous night are written across his face.

Hero's ankle nudges his own, curling around his calf as she curled around him under the covers last night. His insides melt like warm butter, the tips of his ears burning. All these years nurturing a stone heart and she comes along and shatters him with the flick of her smile.

God, how he adores her.

Margaret walks in, handing Hero a letter, and sparing John from further distraction. Her eyes peruse the parchment — freeze — and retrace their path. A crease forms in her brow, the barest tension in her shoulders.

"Is everything well?" John asks.

The surrounding conversation peters off, curious faces turning to Hero. Her expression smooths into a smile, but he observes the strain around her mouth.

"Yes, very well." She pauses, eyes flitting to his then away, pushing a stray lock behind her ear. "Your brother — Don Pedro — he is travelling to Messina. He — he expects to be with us — this afternoon."

Chapter Text

There is a clamour as everyone reacts.

"Uncle Pedro!"

"The Prince!"

Leonato rises. "We must prepare for guests!"

Margaret darts from the room. "I shall inform the staff."

Hero looks at her husband. He is still, his expression drawn; so different from the man moments ago. She wants to ask what he is thinking, but not in front of the others.

There is a rush of motion as orders are issued and duties assigned. Hero ushers the children upstairs under Ursula's care, practically bouncing off the walls at the prospect of Uncle Pedro. Once she has extracted herself she is dragged into conversation with every member of staff she passes, asking which rooms to assign, what should be served for supper, how she would like the seating arranged — as if they have not done this a hundred times before.

At last, she finds her husband in the parlour staring at their marriage portrait.

"John," she rushes to his side. "Are you — you look deep in ponderings?"

He turns to her with a wry smile. "And you look anxious, wife. Does the Prince make you so nervous?"

"No, not at all. But — your memories," she wrings her hands. "Ten years ago, you and Pedro were not on such amiable terms."

His eyebrows jump. "And we are now? Amiable?"

"Yes. You are like brothers."

"Hmm." John tilts his head as if trying to picture that. "Then, I shall endeavour to be amiable."

She searches his face. Only recently has he adjusted to their life together and she fears his brother's appearance will undo all their progress. "I know — I know how things were between you. I know the hardships you have suffered. How difficult it was to make peace."

He eases her fists free, saving her palms from half-moon scars and lacing his fingers through hers. "I suspect it was easier with a wife and family to consider. I could put aside my differences to ensure you received the best my kinship could offer."

"And you have." She squeezes his hands. "You have taken excellent care of us, John. But now it is your well-being I am concerned for. I do not expect you to make cheer when in your mind those issues are still unresolved. But I assure you, Pedro is as changed as yourself. No one will disparage my husband in front of me."

The corner of his mouth crooks and he feathers a kiss across her knuckles. "You are magnificent. Hero — whatever my brother's visit brings, it will not change how I feel about you and our children."

Her heart flutters a daring hope. "And — how do you feel?"

He leans into her, his gaze soft and simmering. "I love you. I love all of you."

She gasps, heat prickling her eyes. Tears slip down her cheeks and he brushes them aside.

"I am sorry for the hurt I caused you. For all that I have put you through — past and present. I swear to be a better husband from now on, the husband you deserve."

Hero shakes her head, blinking through blurred vision. "No. No more apologies — just — just say it again — please."

He holds her gaze, fingers gliding through her hair. "Hero… I love you."

She sighs, slipping her arms around him, pressing their bodies together. His kiss skims her temple —

"I love you."

"Again."

— caresses her damp cheek —

"I love you."

"Again."

— swallows her dimples —

"I love you."

"Again…"

— shudders into her parted lips —

"I love you… Hero…"

She rises on her tiptoes, melting her mouth to his, "Oh John… I love you too."

:-x-:

Don Pedro's impending arrival means the children must be wrangled into baths. There is much protests and slopping of water and when the children are finally clean, the adults too are soaked to the bone.

"They inherited their mulishness from you," Hero mutters, wringing her skirts.

John tosses his sodden coat aside. "They cannot have all their bad qualities from me."

She presses a hand to her heart. "Sir, I am a paragon of virtue."

He inclines his head, his mouth twitching. "You were not so virtuous last night."

Hero gasps, lips unfurling in a smile, and swats his chest. "Villain! How dare you besmirch my good name!"

He sweeps her into his arms, peppering kisses along her throat. "Yes, but I am your villain."

She drapes her arms around his shoulders, letting out a happy sigh, "My villain. Your Hero."

His lips brush across hers, the whisper of a kiss. "My Hero."

Their mouths move together, silent words passing between them like the minims of a psalm.

"Come on," she grins, tugging on his hand.

Their progress is slow, ducking around corners and into alcoves, pressing against one another like a couple of youths caught in the fever of first love. His lungs ache, breathless with the laughter that bursts in his chest, his blood thrums, effervescent.

They stumble into the bathhouse, giggling, and fumble to unrobe. Their hands roam, lathering the other in soap, their bodies intertwining under the water. Light and carefree as he never was before, John trails kisses down Hero's throat and over her collarbone, gathering her in his arms, her body pulsing as if it were his heart he held.

Hero pours the water jug over his head and washes him clean. He blinks, vision clearing, as she brushes aside his damp hair, gazing down at him with her beautiful smile.

"Husband," her lips bless his brow.

His eyes flutter and he gasps her name, unbound, his body unable to contain himself, expanding like the universe, spilling out in sparkling streams. He bundles her against him and together they crash beneath the water, laughing, so closely entwined all his ends begin with Hero.

How else can he describe the sensation except for happiness.

:-x-:

Hero's fingers comb through his wet locks, spooned together against the bath's edge. His stomach swoops under her ministrations. God, how did he earn such adoration?

"If you had lost your memories instead of me…" he hears himself murmur, "Would we have arrived here faster? If I could have pulled my head from my arse sooner…"

"John…" she drags her hands down his head, cradling the back of his neck. "I think it would have been different, yes. I would have been more confused and less receptive. But I would have come around eventually, once I knew the true you. I would have fallen in love with you all over again."

He leans his crown against hers, fingers fanning across the bare of her back. "I have been falling in love with you since I first saw you. I was a fool to deny it so long."

"The circumstances were extraordinary. I can allow some foolishness," she smiles, something fragile in her gaze, "So long as you do not forget me again."

"Never," he vows, sealing his mouth to hers. "Never."

:-x-:

They dry and redress, careful of the puddles splashed around the bath's edges.

Hero towels her hair, cheeks still glowing as she turns to him. "Before your brother arrives, there are things you must know…"

:-x-:

The two parties meet in the courtyard and John is struck with the strangest déjà vu — split in time, the past colliding with the present. He sees the grim-faced spectre of his youth, divided from everyone else, while John stands host, Hero's hand warm in his, their children beside them, supported by the rest of their household.

There is silver in Pedro's curls and laughter etched in his handsome features. Otherwise, he is little changed; his grin still wide and beaming. "Brother! Here I am to impose upon you once again and you give me this fine welcome."

John's chest twists. He has seen his brother smile like that before but never directed at him. "Do not think yourself too special. I specifically requested the second-best vintage be served."

Pedro mimes an arrow to the heart. "Aww, brother, if fraternal affection does not move you — and I know it seldom does — what of the duty owed to your prince?"

John glances at his sons then swings his gaze back to his brother. "You will find princes are common in these parts."

Pedro heaves a sigh. "To be reduced to common. But then we all must dull compared to the jewel that is your wife." He extends his hands to Hero. "How fares you, dear sister? You are more beautiful each time I see you."

Hero accepts his hands with a curtsey. "Very well, good brother. Be assured, your charm never dulls. I hope your journey was without difficulty?"

He kisses her hands. "Sweet lady. You are worth all exertion."

She laughs, easing from his grasp and turning her smile to the child beside him. "And you, Prince Rolando? Was it a pleasant adventure?"

"M-Most ple-pleasant," the young boy stammers, looking dazzled, and holds out a bouquet. "He-here, I — I picked these for — for you, aunt."

"Oh, how lovely!" Hero coos, accepting the flowers. "Thank you, sweet prince. Your father better be careful or you will charm the kingdom out from under him."

Rolando blushes and ducks his head. John observes his nephew; with thick curls and eyes that glitter like the night sky, he is the spitting image of Pedro.

His brother chuckles, squeezing his son's shoulder. "Do not let my brother's surliness fool you. Charm is abundant in our family. He is the exception."

Ten years ago that would have cut. Now, John is ungrazed.

"I am deeply fond of surly," Hero murmurs, pressing into John. And truly, if he were not already in love —

"That is because you are an angel and my brother is blessed to have you."

"You shall hear no argument from me," John utters and Pedro flashes his teeth.

"A miracle! Lady, you are divine."

John rolls his eyes, not dignifying his brother with a response, and instead bows to his nephew, extending his hand in greeting. "Welcome, little prince."

"He-Hello, Uncle John."

Rolando shakes his hand with a shy smile and John feels the same rush of protectiveness as he does for his own children. This boy is his blood and he will do all in his power to support him.

"Children, come greet your uncle and cousin," Hero calls.

No longer bound by propriety, Clarissa and Leo pounce upon Pedro, who laughs and embraces them. "What! Is this my niece and nephew? How much you have grown since I saw you last!"

Clarissa performs a flawless curtsey. "I hope your journey was good, uncle."

With considerably less tact, Leo exclaims, "Have you brought gifts?"

"Leo!" Hero admonishes, but Pedro's laughter booms through the courtyard.

"Of course! Of course! I would not dare show my face empty handed. I have treasures for you all. But where is the third?"

Ursula comes forward carrying Tonio, while Clarissa and Leo turn their attentions on Rolando, bombarding him with questions about his travels. The boy smiles at his cousins' antics and manages to get a few words in edgeway.

Pedro clucks over his youngest nephew, waggling a finger. The toddler wails and slaps his hand away.

"Oh! Oh dear!" Ursula pulls the bawling babe back from the prince, gushing apologies.

Pedro chortles. "He is certainly his father's son."

Hero takes Tonio from Ursula, soothing the babe. His cries teeter out as he settles in his mother's arms.

Pedro smirks at his brother. "As I said."

Again, John rolls his eyes, irritation twining with affection.

Leonato and Antonio come forward to greet Pedro. Hands are clasped and backs are clapped to the cheer of "old friend".

"Tomorrow we will throw a revel in your honour," Leonato proclaims, a hurrah rippling through the gathered crowd.

John marvels how alike this moment is to that fateful summer long ago. And —

His brother laughs with his father-in-law, their children cavorting together. His wife looks up from their son, smiling as she catches his gaze…

— how much has changed.

His winter heart melts like snow under golden sun. He wants to take that jealous shade aside, assure him of the good to come, and quell the corroding anger in his breast. But the past is the past, and, in the present, with his family is where John belongs.

:-x-:

"Truly, brother, you are blessed," Pedro declares, helping himself to the wine stock in his host's private office.

"Can I offer you a drink?" John drawls.

Pedro ignores him, leaning on the desk, bottle in one hand, glass in the other. "It is strange to think that summer long ago would lead us here."

"A true miracle," John murmurs, his gaze sliding to the family portrait on the wall. "Much has changed."

"Much for the better."

His fingers flex, digging into his palm.

Pedro swigs his wine and sighs. "I can still remember it as if it were yesterday. The good — and the bad."

John's tongue has turned to lead and he touches the gold band on his finger. This cannot be avoided, best to get it over with. He straightens. "Pedro… I have shared this with few… but see no use in pretending. That summer is not so far gone for me. I had an accident more than a month ago. It… bereft me of… some memories."

Pedro sets his glass aside, his face smoothing into the placid mask he wears for court. "What measure is some?"

John notes the lack of surprise and his brow furrows. "You knew."

Pedro rolls his shoulders. "I had it from your good cousin, the noble Count Padua — who knew of it through the letters exchanged between his wife and yours. I was struck with — ah — familial concern. Hence, I am here."

John absorbs this implication that his brother has crossed land and sea for him, pouring his own glass and gulping it down. "I should have factored the loudmouth buffoon into my considerations."

"No doubt, it slipped your mind."

He throws his brother a flat look. "Your jokes have not improved."

"At least mine can be called jokes," Pedro mutters into his cup.

"Ten years."

Pedro chokes, sloshing his wine. "Pardon?"

"I lost ten years," John repeats. "My last memories — following the fall — were of your men's armed escort back to Messina."

He watches Pedro absorb this information, draining his wine and setting the glass down before rising from his perch,

"Ten years?" He searches John's face. "This is — you are not jesting?"

"If this is a jest, then it is one fate has pulled on me."

The breath hisses through Pedro's teeth and he clasps his shoulder. "John… I am… so sorry. You say — it has — it has been over a month?"

"Near two." He offers a thin smile. "Do not look so grim. Surly does not suit you. I have made my peace with it. I am far better placed than I was the weeks after my waking."

"But John — ten years — !"

"I know. But dwelling on what I may never regain will only lead to madness. Rather, I consider myself blessed, for I have a loving family and the finest wife."

"This is true." Pedro's mouth flickers, the shadow of a smile. He drops his hand, focus intense. "How does it lie between you? With Hero, I mean? Certainly, you still look at her as if she hung the moon."

John struggles against the strangeness of discussing his marriage with a brother he once despised. "We were reconciled before your arrival."

"So it would appear." Pedro's grin is sly and he taps a spot on John's neck. John burns, recalling what mark Hero left on him, and his brother laughs. "I am glad. Otherwise, I would have brushed off my wings and arrows."

"Oh, spare us. Your last stint as Cupid did not end so well."

"I suppose we must do this all again," Pedro sighs and jabs his finger at John. "Listen well, for I do not admit fault often." John scoffs. "I am happier calling Hero sister than I would be countess. In that, I yield my aim was poor. But I hit true the second time with Benedick and his Lady Tongue."

John regards his brother, gauging the truth of his words. "You are content with your favourite thwarted and your misbegotten brother triumphant?"

"I am." Pedro's smile is soft. "More than that, it pleases me to see Hero happy. For never was there a heart more deserving. The wrong I did her, I regret. And I know you do too. You may have acted the villain in the past, John, but you love her better than Claudio could have done. And — while it may shock you — I too am pleased that you are happy, John. Truly."

His younger self would have twisted Pedro's words to feed his loathing, but John sees he is sincere, and, despite their past strife, pride warms his chest. But there is still a thorn lodged in his throat.

"And what of the exquisite Claudio, how does he fare?"

Pedro tilts his head, considering. "I suspect… you will be better satisfied if I leave that for your wife to tell."

Begrudgingly, John accepts this. He knows he is a coward for avoiding the issue. Hero has assured him of her devotion, but still he fears some secret part of her carries a torch for her first love.

"Come," Pedro grins, pulling him from these morose thoughts with a knowing look. "Let us toast."

"To what?"

"Ohh… to the wisdom age brings and the foolishness of youth, which won our good fortunes."

The corner of John's mouth curves. "You have always been sentimental, brother."

"Admit it, you are pleased to see me."

John hums, swirling his glass before answering, "I am."

Pedro looks surprised, then beams, setting his glass aside, and hauling a startled John into his embrace. "I am pleased to see you too, brother."

John falters, a deer in the hunter's sights. Then, something loosens in his chest, the last jagged shard pulling free, and he folds his arm around his brother.

"I am still giving you the second-best vintage."

Pedro chuckles. "You always do."

Chapter Text

At supper, Pedro captivates his audience with tales of exotic adventures and noble escapades. In his youth, it infuriated John how his braggart half-brother could rob the sun of its glory. Forever the golden son and centre of attention. Now, John finds comfort in Pedro's familiar cadence, smiling with the others.

Where those arrogant tones once chafed, now there is camaraderie between them. No more does John suspect himself the butt of each jest; the barbs are playful and not aimed to wound. The serpent in his breast does not rear its head nor deliver that envious bite. No longer is he starved of love while his brother feasts. Here, John has his children's adoration, the respect of his in-laws, and Hero's hand on his thigh, beneath the table. And — though his past self would suffer torture before admitting how he craved it — he has his brother's friendship too.

The children are whisked to bed and the adults laugh long into the night, drinking wine, and trading stories. Hero delights in the tales of John's youth, even though it is evident she has heard them all before. Pedro is careful in his selections, softening the edges, finding the gold amongst the grit.

Leonato and Antonio balance the scales, needing no encouragement to reveal Hero's childhood misadventures. John grins wildly at his blushing wife as he hears how she adopted every injured stray she came across, no matter how unsuitable, and the other mischief she got up to with her cousin.

Eventually, the celebration winds to a close and they drag themselves to bed. John does not bother with a pretence, following Hero into her chamber and preparing for bed. He watches as she brushes her hair, his fingers twitching.

"Pedro knows of my amnesia."

Hero whirls. "You told him?"

"Yes… and no. He had it from Benedick. I explained the extent of my loss."

"Benedick? But how — " she gasps, clamping her hand over her mouth. "My letters to Beatrice — oh, but I never meant — I did not think — oh John, I am so sorry."

She looks wretched and John pushes from the bed, kneeling before her, and taking her hands in his. "I am not upset. You have nothing to apologise for."

She slumps forward. "I know you value your privacy. I never meant to reveal you. Only… you treated me like a stranger… and I had to appear strong for everyone else… Beatrice has been my confidant since we were children. I just… I needed to be honest with someone…"

He presses her knuckles to his lips. "You do not have to explain. I understand. And I am sorry for what I put you through. I still do not remember the man I was, but… I am trying, Hero. I promise I will keep trying. I will be a good husband to you, a good father to our children."

"Oh John," her fingers glide over his cheek, "You already are."

She nuzzles his crown and he rests his head in her lap. He lingers, savouring the sensation of her petting his hair. Then he remembers what else he needs to discuss and pulls back. John braces. He has put this off too long.

"What of Claudio? What of his fate?"

Hero freezes. Her face contorts and she hunches in on herself, shoulders shaking. His heart lurches — is she crying?

No, he realises in wonder. She is laughing.

"Oh, John… it is the best jape." She grins, leaning forward. "Claudio married not long after us, to a nobleman's daughter — a very handsome and proper match. I have heard there is nothing the count wants more than a son but — alas, he has been blessed with — hmmm — four daughters. And — oh — here is the punchline: he has named them Chastity, Modesty, Honoria, and — and Prudence." She snorts, eyes twinkling. "I think we left a sour taste in his mouth. But — ah — such is wont with a — uh — a rotten orange and a tartly prince."

John absorbs all this, then shakes his head, blood thrumming as mirth mingles with relief. "A fool, an utter fool. I almost pity the wretch, for you are a pearl, Hero. The loveliest wife a man could have."

He burrows in her skirt, peppering her hands with kisses as she folds around him. "Oh my wild heart. No other husband would I have. No better man could I love."

She kisses him sweet like nectarine, maple sap pouring through his veins as he cradles her in his arms. "Hero… wish I the words to express how dear I love you."

"So show me." Her mouth parts upon his own, a whispered dare, "Show me."

And John, who has always been a man of action, leaves no room for doubt.

:-x-:

The children race through the garden, the dogs weaving in-between them. Rolando has emerged from his shell and is quick to engage with Clarissa's games, while a starry-eyed Leo hurries after the older boy, firing off questions which Rolando never loses patience with. Matteo and Samuele too join the fun and the daylight fills with shrieks and laughter.

"It is nice to see them playing together," Pedro says, settling beside John on the veranda. "I regret we were not more like them as children."

John glances at him.

A wry smile tugs at Pedro's lips. "I wonder sometimes if things had been different… if I had acted less of an ass… maybe we could have been friends, brothers."

John leans on the stone railing, looking out across the garden, his home. "I was no kinder."

"You were impossible," Pedro chuckles, before sobering. "But then… we deserved no better, with how we treated you. I allowed blood to divide when it should have united us."

He sucks in a breath, as if building up to something —

John holds up his hand. "If this is an apology, Pedro, spare us both. For if you apologise for your wrongs, I will have to apologise for mine, and then we shall be here all day."

Pedro huffs, smiling. "You always have to be contrary."

"It is the past. I am trying to live in the present."

Pedro claps his shoulder. "You should knock your head more often, it seems to have done you a wonder of good."

John slaps his arm while his brother laughs.

A wail has their attention whipping to the children. Leo has fallen and Rolando helps him to his feet, consoling his sniffling cousin

"Rolando is a kind lad. I assume he inherited his gentle-spirit from his mother."

Pedro's face twists. "You can assume…"

John notes his rigid spine and his voice softens, "Is she… dead?"

Pedro's mouth twitches, humourless. "What has your wife told you?"

"That you had a son and no wife, and that is all she would say."

"That is true enough."

John frowns and, cringing, he rests a hand on his brother's arm. "I am… sorry for your loss."

Pedro's gaze shifts. "I thank you, but you misunderstand. I have no wife because I never married."

John freezes, ice spearing his veins. He glances at the children and back to his brother — his noble half-brother, their father's legitimate heir.

His voice drops low and dangerous. "That is an ill jest."

"It is no more a jest now than when we last had this conversation."

John's fingers hook in Pedro's sleeve, hissing through clenched teeth, "You had a ba— a child out of wedlock. After the Hell I went through. I take it back, you do owe me an apology, and you owe one to your son. What the fuck, Pedro?"

"I did not plan this. It was foolish, I know. I did not discover him until after his mother had passed." He falters and a trickle of John's anger wanes, this is a familiar story. "It was not — not love between us. But I would — I would have married her — if she had lived. As it is, I had the certificates forged. There will always be speculation, but Rolando is my legal heir."

"Until you marry and sire another."

"I will not." John stills at the conviction in Pedro's voice. "I have vowed I will never marry. Nor will I sire another heir. At least not one that could have a more legitimate claim. I will not risk my son being displaced or losing that which is rightfully his."

John searches his brother's face, frowning. "You are in earnest."

Pedro offers a rueful smile. "I cannot change the past. But I will spare my son what you suffered. I will be a better father than our own."

John expels a breath, an old ache easing. "That is no great feat. But Rolando is a happy child and it is plain he adores you."

His brother sighs. "I fear it is not enough. That I do not give him enough of my attention. My duties as prince keep me from those as a father. I am always busy and I worry he is alone, without mother or siblings. Often I travel. I do not want to abandon him, but the long journeys are taxing for a child. When we are apart it is as if my soul has been torn asunder, he is always in my thoughts. And yet, when we are together I struggle to express myself. I do not know how to love except in gifts and fineries. I can secure him anything his heart desires, but gold is a cold companion. I wish that I were more like you, brother."

John chokes. "Me? You wish to be like me? Often did I bemoan that I were not like you. Now you are the envious one? We are a fabled pair."

Pedro chuckles. "Why should I not be envious? You have the devotion of a beautiful wife, children who love you and are confident of that love's return. You are so honest in your affection, brother. For you, fatherhood is natural."

"Ah, to turn back the clock and witness our father's reaction to those words."

"The shock would kill him."

"Mmm," a smile tugs at John's lips before he schools his expression. "Do not think me without fear. When I woke and found I had children I could not remember, it terrified me. I did not know how to behave with them and still I am figuring it out." He leans on the wall, shoulders hunched. "I have our father's temper. I have ruined too many good things."

"You have built a good life for yourself," Pedro assures him, voice soft.

John exhales, raking his fingers through his hair. "A miracle in itself. I am trying and you are trying and there must be weight in that. Children know the difference between a parent who makes an effort and one that does not. We did."

Pedro hums. "There is wisdom in your words."

"It is Hero's influence. Speak to her for better guidance. But you need not stress your handsome face. You have this infuriating habit of succeeding at everything you set yourself too. You are a good father, Pedro."

His brother grins. "Look at us, getting along. Our younger selves would be horrified."

John snorts. "We were such shits."

"Were?"

They chuckle and John gives his brother a considering look. "You truly will not marry?"

"Alas, your wife and her cousin are already spoken for!"

Pedro is spared from being hauled into a headlock as Clarissa scampers over to them. "Papà! Uncle! Will you play with us?"

Pedro greets her with a warm smile. "Of course, princess. What is it you are playing?"

John recognises the spark in his daughter's eyes and has already shuffled out of reach when she slaps Pedro's arm and cries "TAG!"

She bolts. John takes advantage of his brother's shock and leaps over the veranda. As he flees into the hedgerows, he hears Pedro shouting, "JOHN!"

John salutes him. "You have to be quicker than that, brother."

Pedro curses and jumps from the veranda, giving chase. Like a child, John runs, laughter ripping from his chest. That once insurmountable distance between him and his brother vanishes like shadows in the sun. Daylight pours around them, the garden blooms in technicolour — red, yellow, lavender, white, and wild green.

He catches a giggling Clarissa, scooping her into his arms, and whirling to face his pursuer.

"John," Pedro pants, halting. "You cannot use your daughter as a shield. It is cheating."

"It is strategy," Clarissa chirps, looping her arms around her father's neck.

John beams at her proudly then turns his smirk on Pedro. "Your move, brother."

Pedro scoffs. "I defeated you in battle once before and I will do it again."

John's eyebrows shoot up. And, if they are joking about that then they truly have reconciled.

"You will try."

It does not prevent John later from tackling his brother into the pond.

:-x-:

Hero takes in their dishevelled states, wavering between horror and mirth. Behind her, Margaret and Ursula smother their laughter.

Hero's mouth whirs open and shut until at last she musters her voice in firm command, "Baths. Now."

The children shuffle off under the care of the serving woman while Hero thrusts her finger at the two men.

"What. Happened?"

Out of the lot, the brothers are worse for wear, courtesy of their skirmish in the pond — and later on the lawn. Twigs and leaves stick out of their hair, their clothes soaked and muddied. John has discovered he can beat on his brother far more now they are friends and has taken full advantage. Although, Pedro is no victim. They look as if they have gone to war (again).

"He started it," Pedro mutters.

"That was always your line."

"It is true."

Hero claps her hands, silencing them. "I do not care who started it. What sort of example does this set for the children?"

John shrugs. "They invited us to join their game."

"Yes," Pedro jumps in, "We were only doing as they asked. In a way, this is their fault."

Hero fixes them with a bland look. "Really? You are going to blame your own children?"

The brothers glance at each then back to her.

"Yes."

"Little devils, the lot of them."

Hero pinches her brow, mouth twitching as she fights a smile. "Ridiculous. Ridiculous! Clean yourselves up. And no more fights. Honestly!

With that, she spins and swishes down the hall. The brothers watch her go.

"To think, I wooed her in Claudio's stead," Pedro bemoans. "I was a fool."

John pats his shoulder, mouth curving. "Remember, to the foolishness of youth, brother. Your bad sense has been my good fortune."

Pedro releases a mournful sigh. "It is a shame the lady's taste is poor."

"Green is not your colour, brother."

"No, it is yours."

Hero voice calls from the other room. "Is that quarrelling I hear? I swear I bid you wash!"

The men glance at each other.

"Race you!" Pedro exclaims and takes off running.

"Are you seri— " John gives chase.

Chapter Text

Lanterns adorn the garden, garlands strung across the posts, torches burn, the last eddies of amber sun ebb into violet night. The orchestra strikes a tune and the revellers stomp their feet and clap their hands, weaving in and out of a merry circle.

At the masquerade long before, John had clung to the edges, sowing his seeds of discord. Now, he is at the centre, his blood rushing with the music, a breathless grin on his face. His daughter skips alongside him, leading him through her own elaborate dance.

"Spin me, Papà! Spin me!" Clarissa cries and he twirls her to her heart's content. "Up! UP!"

John lifts her up, swinging her round and round. Clarissa lights like a firework, delighted laughter sparkling across her face. As the music slows, he hefts her into his arms, holding her close as she nuzzles his shoulder, and sways them along to the song.

Soon, she starts to droop, and he carries her to Ursula and Antonio, who offer refreshments and a seat at their tables. John accepts, exchanging pleasantries. As he chuckles over some joke of Antonio's, his gaze returns to where his wife dances with Rolando. Evidently, the young prince has been tutored, his steps without falter, managing to lead despite the considerable height difference. Hero smiles warmly at him, and John will not be surprised if his nephew falls a little in love.

The dance finishes and Rolando bows low to Hero, who returns a curtsey. Across the garden, his wife meets his gaze and winks. His nephew is going to grow into a charming prince, who will set all the ladies swooning, should it please him.

Leo and a revived Clarissa skid across to their cousin, and Rolando transforms from the perfect courtier to an excitable boy true to his age. The three of them scamper off, to cause some mischief or scrape.

John watches them, smiling, "There goes trouble."

"And here it comes," Antonio chortles, nodding to the dancefloor where Pedro has swooped upon the unattended Hero.

He bends to kiss her hand, asking her something John can guess. Then her hand is in his and they are spinning in a circle, alongside the other dancers. Hero laughs as Pedro whispers in her ear. Even at this distance, John can see the quirk in her smile as she replies and Pedro throws his head back, laughing.

Another version of John would be jealous. But for all his brother's flirting, John understands there is nothing more than friendship between them. Their love — and there is no doubt it is love — is the familial kind. John would be a fool to suspect his brother coveted his wife and an even bigger one to distrust Hero. She loves him, no matter how impossible it seems. She loves him.

Watching the two people who have had the most significant impact on his life dance and laugh together stirs a strange, not unpleasant, sensation in his chest. He smiles, confident Hero is trimming his brother's ego to a tolerable size and leaves to find Leonato.

As he circulates the crowd, he spies Margaret and Conrade dancing together. He pauses. It still bemuses him how those two ended up together, but they look happy. Margaret is laughing, her curls falling around her face, while Conrade gazes at her, softer than John has ever seen him, twirling her in his arms. Who knew the man could dance so well. He is pleased his friend found happiness.

John locates Leonato, looking like Bacchus with his face flushed and enjoying the wine. He lights when he spies John, clapping him on the shoulder. "Ah, son! Is this not the most joyous evening? There are people I want you to meet. I have been talking their ears off already — all good things, I promise."

Pride swells in John and he smiles, sincere, as he steadies his father-in-law with a hand to his back. "Thank you, sir. I will be honoured to meet any acquaintance of yours. But first, there is a matter I would like to discuss with you…"

Night darkens to glistening obsidian and the exhausted children are herded to bed. Clarissa protests but is appeased by the soft-spoken Rolando, following him in, while Antonio carries a sleepy Leo on his shoulder.

Like the sea to the shore, or a compass needle to north, John and Hero draw together.

"My lady, will you dance with me?

She beams, iridescent, their fingers intertwining. "I was waiting for you to ask."

They take their positions; he rests his palm on the curve of her waist. "I should have done this the first night we met."

She leans in close, brushing her lips over his beard. "We are here now."

They fly across the grass, Hero laughing, her curls tossed. Lightning pulses through John's veins, transfixed by her loveliness. They part and reunite, over and over, their bodies gravitating like two halves of one whole. Their eyes lock, sparks leaping between them, smiles blazing like wildfires. He holds her close, running his hands across her waist, savouring the feel of her as she melts into his touch, then whips out his arm, sending her spinning.

Her skirts flame around her, the torches burnishing her curls in amber and gold. Blessed laughter warms his ears, drowning all other music in an angel's choir. His chest is tight and breathless, his heart pattering out a beat: I love you. I love you. I love you.

Her fingers catch on the tips of his own and she is spooling into his arms. Her eyes aglow and he realises he is murmuring —

"Beautiful… so, so, beautiful…"

"John… John, my darling, John, I love you."

He crushes her hand to his lips, holding it there as if he might embed his kiss. "Hero… my heart… my love… my whole…"

The music slows. They sway in each other's arms, content to rest their heads on the other's shoulder and savour the sweet peace as the stars sparkle overhead, infinite.

:-x-:

John wakes slow, blinking through the last dregs of sleep. His vision focuses, shifting around the room, calm, still. Outside, he hears the twitter of birdsong. Sunlight spills through the cracks in the shutters, illuminating the dark room and bathing the figure beside him in gold.

Hero slumbers on, curled against him, his arm around her waist. He can feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing. Her face is serene in pleasant dreaming. He reaches out, combing his fingers through her silken tresses. She hums, eyes still closed and he repeats the motion, marvelling at the softness of her hair.

"John…" she sighs, the corners of her mouth unfurling in a smile.

He dives down, trailing kisses along the length of her throat. "Beautiful…beautiful…"

She releases a sleepy laugh and blinks her lashes open. "Good morning, husband."

He drags his mouth over the smooth of her shoulder, then rises to peck her lips. "Good is any morning that begins like this."

"Mmmm…" she arches into him, deepening the kiss.

His hand tangles in her hair while his other splays across her back, clasping her to him. "Hero… Hero…"

He venerates her lips, letting her understand how much he adores her. She smiles against him, nuzzling his cheek, his chin, her hands gliding over his chest and shoulders. He feels the sins of his youth flake from him like ash under her redeeming touch, turning him golden.

His eyes find hers, her gaze bright and reverent, and he cradles her head in his hands. "Hero… I want you. Every day. I want to be with you. I love you." He holds her gaze until he is sure she sees the depth of this truth in them. "I love you."

"John…"

Before she can finish there is a commotion at the door and their children topple through. John and Hero spring apart. (Now he understands why she was so insistent they redress after last night's activities.)

"Clarissa! Leo!" Hero slinks from bed, over to their children. "What are you doing?"

"We were listening in to see if you were awake but Leo shoved me," Clarissa explains, scrambling to her feet.

Her brother jerks upright. "No, I didn't! You were hogging the door!"

"Oh, and you brought Tonio with you," Hero sighs, scooping their youngest son into her arms and tossing John an exasperated smile. "Come along then, darlings."

She saunters back to the bed. The children cheer, hurtling onto the mattress and upon their father.

"Papà!"

"Papà!"

He laughs, returning their embrace. "Good morning, imps. What havoc do you have planned for today?"

Hero scoots onto the bed, leaning against him. Tonio reaches out to tug his sleeve. John catches his chubby paw, squeezing it gently while Clarissa and Leo speak at once, their voices rising in a cacophony of sound that has the adults wincing. Amused, John glances at Hero, who is watching him with a soft smile.

He winks and turns back to the children. "Did I hear right? You plan to tidy your rooms?"

"Nooo!"

Hero snorts into his shoulder and he swallows a laugh. "Ah, right… you are to tidy your rooms and wash the dogs."

"Papppaaà! Nooo!"

"I think their kennels need cleaning too…"

"Aaaahhh! STOP!"

The children tackle him, pummelling him with pillows. Between their shouts he hears his wife's tinkling laughter. Warmth floods his chest and he batters off their attacks, capturing them in his arms.

"Your revolt has failed. You must now serve at my will! Unless your mother bids otherwise."

They all look to Hero, who trembles with suppressed laughter. "I declare… we should all descend for a hearty breakfast."

The children cheer, scrambling from the bed. John rises as well but Hero catches his sleeve. He turns, reading the request in her gaze, and leans down for a chaste kiss.

The moment is broken as Tonio releases a howl, thrashing in his mother's lap, and an awful smell pollutes the air. Hero wrinkles her nose.

John takes the little one from her. "I will take care of him."

Hero lights like the dawn and John wants to spend the rest of his life receiving that smile.

:-x-:

Hero is beginning to suspect her daughter is up to something. For the last few hours, she has been led through the gardens and across the fields, picking flowers with Clarissa and Margaret. Hero would not mind the exercise, but Clarissa insisted they change into their nicest frocks to play faerie princesses and she is conscious of the fine fabric dragging in the mud or catching on thistles.

All her suggestions to return to the villa have been met with protest, her daughter insisting they need more flowers. They have gathered three baskets full and now Margaret is fashioning a crown for Clarissa.

Hero is surprised Leo has not tracked them down yet and insisted on his own crown. She has neither seen nor heard a peep from her son since breakfast, nor Rolando, nor Pedro, nor John. After yesterday's scuffle, she is half expecting to return and find the brothers have constructed forts from the furniture and are now laying siege to one another (it would not be the first time). The thought brings a smile to her lips. She can cope with the chaos; it is the silence that concerns her.

A sharp trill splits the tranquil morning, the whistle of a bird — or someone mimicking a bird. Clarissa jumps to her feet, dislodging several petals from her crown.

"Come, Mamma! We must attend my court!"

Her daughter seizes her hand, hauling her along the path. Hero allows herself to be pulled — lest her arm be dislodged from its socket — and tosses Margaret an amused look.

"Oh, is that what we are doing?"

The serving woman gives a mischievous smile. "Swift feet, lady. We do not want to keep the court waiting."

Hero narrows her eyes but is forced to look ahead so as not to stumble, keeping up with her daughter's eager pace. Only when they break the hedgerows does Clarissa slow. Hero's gaze travels from her daughter to the scene in front and she gasps.

It is like she has stepped back in time… or perhaps into the pages of a faerie tale. The garden is still decorated in the garlands and bunting from the night before. The whole household has congregated, the Prince and his retinue among them. Everyone is smiling and dressed in their best clothing — even Leo and Tonio have been wrangled into their formal attire, their hair combed. John stands at the centre of it all, dressed in his soldier's uniform, looking as handsome as the day they married…

Behind him stands the Friar

Hero freezes, her pulse quickening. "What — what is this?"

John strides forward, knocking the air from her lungs as he drops to his knee. "Hero, will you marry me?"

"John—" she splutters around a smile, "We are already married."

"Marry me, again." He gives her that boyish grin, turning her insides to butterflies. "My accident has been a trial for us both, but the happiest twist of my life was waking to discover you are my wife. I may never regain my full memories, but I love you, Hero, with all that I am, with everything I have. I am a better man because of you. I want to be the husband you deserve. Falling in love with you has been an honour I want to relive for the rest of my life. Marry me, Hero. Bless me again, because I want to cherish this moment, always."

There is a breathless pause as Hero fights back hot tears and in the silence Pedro's mutter is heard, "That is the most eloquent I have known him."

John twitches but his gaze remains fixed on Hero.

She smiles, bottom lip trembling. "John… you are my heart and home. I will marry you every day if you desire it."

Like a bonfire on an autumn night, his face erupts in an incandescent grin, and he hurries to his feet, clasping her hands. His mouth collides with hers, sweet heat fanning across her lips and through her blood. She throws her arms around him and he folds her into his embrace, their bodies entwining —

"You did not say they would be kissing!" Leo whinges in the background.

Laughter rolls through the crowd and the lovers separate with a smile.

"Shall we begin the ceremony?" Friar Francis asks.

John nods and Hero links her arm through his, sunlight pouring out her heart.

"You will need these, my lady." Margaret grins, handing her one of the bouquets they picked earlier.

Hero accepts, giving her friend a soft look. "Thank you, Margaret."

Clarissa goes before them, skipping down the aisle, tossing flowers. Arm-in-arm, the lovers follow, beaming at the crowd who smile and offer congratulations as they pass.

"You did this last time," Ursula murmurs to a blubbering Antonio.

"It is — an emotional occasion," he defends, accepting her handkerchief and dabbing at his eyes.

At the end of the aisle, her father bestows a warm smile, his eyes shining, while a bored Tonio fusses in his arms, seconds from yanking on his grandfather's beard. Leo is not faring much better, visibly vibrating, but he keeps quiet, Rolando's arm around his shoulder, flowers clutched to his chest. Pedro winks at the couple. Clarissa goes to stand with the rest of their family and then John and Hero are before the Friar.

"You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady?"

"I do."

"You come hither, my lady, to marry this prince?"

"I do."

"If either of you know any inward impediment why you should not be conjoined, charge you, on your souls, to utter it."

"Oh," Hero leans forward conspiratorially. "I confess… I am not a maid."

John winks, "Nor am I."

Hero clamps her lips together to hold back her giggling while Friar Francis gives them both an exasperated look. The ceremony continues, John's eyes locked with hers, burning with unrestrained happiness.

"...I pronounce you husband and wife. Again."

John and Hero surge together, kissing as the audience cheers and showers them in confetti.

"Does this mean we are to have another honeymoon?" Hero whispers into her husband's ear.

His eyes blaze and he scoops her into his arms, the crowd whooping and whistling. He nuzzles her cheek. "Whatever my wife desires."

"The children will insist on travelling with us."

"We can send them to Aragon with my brother."

"We will return to find Clarissa has seized Pedro's throne."

"That is a problem?"

Hero laughs, leaning her temple to his, their noses brushing. "Oh, my rogue heart, I do so love you."

He gazes at her, soft and adoring. "My sweet wife, how fortunate, I love you too."

His mouth finds its way back to hers, tender and belonging. Around them the congregation celebrates, while the bride and groom remain lost in each other. Though, lost is not the correct word. Rather, they are found.

"Are you happy, Hero?"

Her eyes shine, her smile flush. "More than I can say. And you… are you happy, John?"

"More than I believed I could be." He strokes his thumb across her cheek and leans in for another kiss. "I am home."