Chapter Text
They are gone from Messina that night, then on to Cremona, then Mantua, then Padua, and finally to Firenze, wed in the little hours in the littlest church, witnesses a tolerant barkeep and their virtuous landlady (who would not have rented them a room without). The first flashes of morning pass over the Duomo before they crawl into bed, too exhausted to do more than curl up in each other’s arms after sending word that the thing is done. No-one at home could have doubted Benedick’s intentions, nor fear Beatrice a fool; yet the trials of Hero had shaken Leonato greatly, and to flee a wedding with such pomp as would befit them would be a low prank if it taxed this new and fragile familial peace, harder-won as it was than the wars which still stooped Don Pedro.
The sun is well past its zenith when they wake again, stiff from the carriage and saddle, heat-drunkards sobered by their knowing; they are husband and wife, in the eyes of god and man, until death. The game won, they reach for each other, seeing their prize, and find themselves afraid. Making war had been a merry play, safely knowing their object would never be reached, and so it is again on that first day — until their object climbs the horizon, and things go to pot.
Don Pedro’s first serious thought of their matching, was that neither would endure silence if a joke could be made. Such humors must be matched, he said; else jokes feel like blows, and liver met with spleen.
Thus Benedick finds his beard regrown, and with his head in her lap Beatrice calls out to the saints, curses, rends her sheets, tears her hair, tightens on Benedick like a vice, and yet for all his steady labor the lady does not fade at last. Benedick is as good a soldier to a lady as he has ever been to his lords, but Beatrice, who in daylight would fire at any target, in secret will not let the notched arrow fly. She who has no mother must speak herself into existence, and while her tongue works as hard as Benedick’s, she will not lose her self.
Frustrated, she drags him north anon, pulls him into kisses until his mouth stops her thoughts, thundering with thick blood and shining with the sweat of the journey. The mood lifts, she feels Benedick heavy against her, and thinks now, yes, I do, yes, I will, yes.
Now it is Benedick’s turn to falter. Welcomed, longing, longed for, he now finds no force to his thrust, waves crashing unmoved on Hymen’s rock. Desire finds no purchase, and is lost. He crumples. A broken sword turns, and smites its owner.
Benedick is shaking. Beatrice looks away; she has not seen him afraid before. Reluctant, troubled, worried, frustrated, yes, but not afraid. He looks at her, and is frightened, and she begins to fear herself.
He reaches out. "Sweet, sweet Beatrice, I--"
"Sweet as a shaved lemon," she says, the words bitter shards on her tongue.
The drapes hang limp in the humid air, and it's too hot to touch, naked above the sheets. Still not looking, Beatrice reaches her hand behind her on the bed, twines her smallest finger into Benedick’s. He squeezes tight, once, twice, and loosens, lapsing into quiet.
It takes a long time to fall asleep, trying to match each other's breathing. The next day they both try to cook, separately, and fail separately, and pretend to read, separately, and if both find the charred remains of what was once their favourite foods in the trash, they do so separately.