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Don John heard the discussion conclude and sighed in relief. His heart rate slowed, his head stopped spinning, and the heavy feeling of dread lifted from his feet. Almost immediately, the buzz of drunken Italians returned, with it, the weight. Though he didn’t realise it, his face contorted into a grisly scowl. As he silently observed the supper, taking the role of a gargoyle, a familiar face approached him and quickly bowed. “My lord, why do you seem so melancholy tonight? Have your plans of mischief been brought to question?”
“Oh, Conrade- um, no, I’m just… pondering. Watching over enemies, even gathering information, is tedious. Though I think about it longer, have you planned to sabotage the wedding? Although my heart delights at the idea, it has yet to produce a strategy.”
“No, well, I’ll leave you then. I pray your heart decides… what to do.” To Conrade, it was clear as Giovanni’s murder that Don John wasn’t telling the whole truth. Didn’t John trust him enough? But this wasn’t his donkey to prod. And with that, Don John was left to his own devices to watch over the supper like a villainised guardian angel. Inevitably, his mind wandered away from his post.
☙❦❧
And the title of villain falls to me by my mother; maidenhood stolen, condemned to walk as an outcast, more so than me, and yet I have so many inequalities that she must be tra la persone perdute. And through my father’s wrongs, I have been passed the title of a bastard. And had he not acted upon her, upon his shameful urges, had he made me Pedro’s real brother, had he made me pure, would I be a villain? I think not, damn him. I consider myself cruel, but this world is so cruel to me that I must be cruel towards it. Why should the bastard be the villain? Why should I be disadvantaged by my father’s actions? I am two years Pedro’s elder, and yet I must fall at his feet every day on account of something that I cannot choose. Damn him. Damn my father, damn this world.
And why must I hide myself to such an extent?
☙❦❧
He heard soft footsteps; the floor creaked. “John? Are you still there, my lord?” It was Conrade. His heart sunk and fluttered, a lark learning to fly. He sighed.
“Yes, I am here.” Conrade bounded into view.
“Oh, excellent, my lord. Has your often-restless mind planned anything?”
“No. It’s as if I am your village idiot.” He smiled and jokingly bowed. “Have you?”
“Well… not- no. You still seem poorly. Are you sure everything is up to standard?”
“Um, well, not exactly-” he sat against the gallery wall. Conrade followed. Slowly, a small tear escaped John’s guise of steadiness, shining in the candlelight.
“John-?” He broke down, his head on Conrade’s shoulder. The people at supper could hear his crying, but he didn’t care. It felt so good to get this out.
“My liege, shall we observe the supper?” Borachio turned the corner.
He stared daggers at Borachio, half-sobbing, half merciless, and the wounded wolf, Don John cried, “Rid yourself. Get out. Tomorrow, you’ll belong in a cemetery. Alexander and Hephaestion don’t need you anymore, Bucephalus. You’re the one who deserves to be a bastard son.”
“Hephaestion” shot around. Hephaestion? John was Alexander? Was their relationship that close? Unwillingly, a small smile inched onto Don John’s face. Conrade bowed his head, blushing. His heartbeat was steadily climbing. His head started spinning. Oh no. Not again. And as John and Conrade tiptoed around the obvious, the candlelight illuminated their longing faces like chiaroscuro.