Chapter Text
"Hero is a female name from Greek mythology; it comes from 'hḗrōs' (ἥρως) meaning 'demi-god'. In Latin, the word 'heros' was borrowed to mean more specifically a person with superhuman strength and unbreakable courage; one who protects and defends others in a self-sacrificial way."
I’ve always thought it was funny, naming a daughter who was destined to be a damsel in distress “Hero.” Perhaps damsel in distress is a bit overdramatic, but the idea fits what my life has been more closely than the superhuman rescuer invoked by my name. A hero is brave, strong, unbreakable, self-sacrificing. I am a lady, gentility and softness have been instilled in me my whole life. Beatrice has always been the strong one, the smart one, with her tongue sharp as a whip and her loyalty to those she loves more fearsome than the mightiest sword.
“You deserve to live for yourself, you know,” she tells me one day as we sit politely sweating under a tree, “Wanting to be happy isn’t selfish.”
“I am happy, cousin,” I say, slicing a pear and passing her half. “I am simply not so merry of spirit and wit as you are. We can’t all be such paragons of vivacity.” She laughs and tosses a pillow at me, shaking her head.
“If any of us is a paragon of any sort, it is surely you dearest! Lord knows I am far too silly to be any kind of good example.” I blush at the compliment, turning away to hide my smile, knowing Beatrice too well to try contradicting her.
Though we grew to be close as sisters over our visits each summer, I have never gotten used to the praise she heaps on me. It isn’t that I don’t get praise from any other sources; no, rather I had a near constant stream of flattery from my father, from my uncle, from Margaret, from whomever else was visiting. Comments on how gracefully I danced or politely I sat, how beautiful I looked in a certain dress, how lovely my smile. Those I could accept with every grace they sprang from. But compliments from Beatrice are different. Where everyone else seems to heap praise on my person— how sweet my smile was, how rosy my cheeks, how soft my manners— Beatrice seems to look beneath all that, and find someone rich in character as well as appearance, a person with a heart more golden than a sweet apple, and a mind with more depth than what polite conversation would betray. Where others look at me and see Leonato’s sweet daughter, Beatrice seems to look at me and see… a Hero worthy of her name.
I would lay awake at night sometimes as she snored softly next to me, sprawled across the wall of pillows that separated us so we could keep cool— Beatrice was a cuddler, and that wasn’t always the most comfortable of positions in the heat of the summer, even in the cool of the night— and think of what it might be like to actually be that woman. To impress people with my words, not just my appearance, to speak and be listened to because my audience valued what I had to say.
The Hero of my imagination and Beatrice’s eyes was brave like her name suggested, she solved problems that made her father and uncle panic, she spoke with confidence to enraptured guests, entertaining as I had so often seen Beatrice do (though even in my imagination, I was never so cutting or clever as Beatrice was; no, her particular way of wielding words was too much for even my imagination). Perhaps that Hero could catch someone’s eye at a gathering one day, his eyes watching her as she addressed one of her father’s political friends like an educated woman. Maybe he would see that Hero smiling as she gestured calmly, posture not just proper but assured, and wonder what else she had to say, if he might hold her in such enraptured conversation as she seemed to hold court. Perhaps after a while he might pull her aside and offer to refill her drink, and ask after her opinion on how her people were governed, after a while the conversation slipping to something more friendly…
But no, I never let my idle dreaming get farther than that. I may be the governor’s daughter, but I am not the same strong lady as Beatrice, or even my aunt, before she passed. My quips and comments do not flow as quickly, nor can I convince a group of anyone— let alone dignitaries or guests or my father— with a simple yet genius look. I always seem to take longer to generate something that I feel is good enough to contribute, something that cannot be criticized or gently corrected. By the time I have anything I would not be ashamed to share at large, the topic has passed, or the conversation shifted in a different direction altogether.
Besides, to draw that much attention to myself, to brazenly submit my opinion to all and sundry for examination, me, a soft girl of 18, who has barely seen an opportunity to stray from my father’s estate... That would take more bravery than I have in my whole body. I would much rather stick to gathering smiles and compliments and observations of what I see around me than requesting critique on my best ideas. Better to be Leonato’s gentle daughter, than Leonato’s embarrassingly foolish child.
This evening, father informed us that we were to receive an important party: the Prince and his men, having just returned from war. All of us were excited at this news. Not only did this promise the celebration and entertainment required for such noble guests, it also signaled the end of a very intense time for us and our neighbors. Beatrice especially was particularly relieved by this news, though another might say she was more inconvenienced or entertained. Indeed, she made a fair point of announcing her coming joust with her longtime opponent, Lord Benedick. Our uncles and friends guffawed, tickled as ever by her toothless ire, but I knew that her boisterous and flamboyant opposal masked reluctant delight. Of course, I was not so foolish as to mention it to her, and so I kept it to myself.
Only Ursula looked on this news with any trepidation.
“When the wind blows from east, it bodes not well for man nor beast,” she quoted to us as we readied ourselves for bed on the eve of their arrival.
“Please, the only thing a wind might signal is a full belly or an oncoming storm. Both, if as many soldiers as we are promised arrive on the morrow.” Ursula sucked her teeth at this and helped me out of my stays while Beatrice met her ire with an arched brow. For my maid’s sake I struggled to hide my mirth.
“What do you think shall come about from this visit?” I asks her after Ursula has gone to her own bed to rest, my hands wringing the sheets.
“Nothing terribly significant, I should think,” my cousin sighs, gently stroking my hair. Her tone shifts to mischief. “Unless of course, you charm the prince into marrying you!” I giggle and swat away her hand, now tugging playfully at my curls.
“Oh? And what of your charms cousin?” I whisper-yell. “Your wit and conversation is renowned for miles, perhaps you shall be the one to snare a husband!”
“Snare, indeed! The day I get a husband is the day I’ve lost my mind! No, my Hero, I shall leave the wedding and populating this house with angelic children to you.”
“Beatrice!” We giggle softly into the dark, finally settling into slumber. As I lay there, I wonder if any of her words, teasing though they may be, hold any weight. Father had begun to mention a union for me in the future, though it remained fully hypothetical. I try on the notion of being a wife in my head. I'm not quite sure I am prepared to be a married woman yet, but the idea of having a husband and being in love has begun to seem brighter and brighter in recent months.
Just before I drift off, I resolve to ask Beatrice and Margaret their thoughts in the morning. Or perhaps I shall wait until all the commotion of the Prince’s coming party has settled down. Surely there will be time enough to decide what I do or don’t want in the coming years.
Oh, how wrong I turn out to be.