Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was early morning: golden, trembling rays of the waking sun slowly lit up the twisting forest path in front of him, and the song of birds changed from the loud, pre-dawn trill to a more melodious sound. It was his favourite time of day—and he would have found it so strikingly beautiful, like the early mornings in the Sasau forests that would sometimes nearly bring him to tears, if it wasn’t for one thorn in his side. One impossible to ignore. Unexpected and unexpectedly painful.

It had been three days since they were released from the stocks; his neck still ached with a strange, dull pain each time he turned his head a little bit too quickly to the right. It has been three days of struggling to orient himself in an unknown place, struggling to find food and some hay to rest his head on without being chased away by distrustful villagers. It has been three days of wandering alone, sneaking into abandoned houses in an attempt to find anything useful, wading through cold creeks and muddy river bends to loot fish traps, and having to change routes all the time and walk miles and miles more than what he planned just to escape the bandits lurking everywhere.

His shoulder still ached, and he had a nasty cut on his forearm after a brigand’s bolt caught up to him when he was frantically escaping through the forest. He knew his left eye was still a bit swollen after one of the villagers managed to land a particularly vicious punch back at the tavern, and his split lip still proved bothersome each time he drank or ate. Not that he had much to eat for the past three days; still, he was tired and in pain. Worst of all, he was alone.

It had been three days of being in the constant state of utmost alert, with no one to watch his back, without Mutt or Pebbles, without anyone to talk to. It has been three days of feeling the same way he felt as he was running away from Skalitz, black smoke billowing behind him and obscuring the sun, and dangerous darkness in front of him, full of hostile strangers and unanswered questions. Three days of loneliness and struggle. Three days of worry. Three days of nightmares. 

It had been three days since Hans abandoned him. 

Henry threw the ruined torch to the side, letting it roll down the hill from the path: he knew it would be no use any more, already in a bad state when he stole it, and now completely broken after he had to use it to defend himself from a wolf that jumped him the night before. Luckily, it was no longer needed; the sun was now slowly climbing across the skies, chasing away the remnants of the night hiding between the ferns and grasses, and Tachov appeared right in front of him as he walked out of the line of the trees. 

He tried to smooth out the patched up, miserable clothes he was wearing and ran his fingers through his hair in hopes of at least getting rid of any stray leaves or sticks that might have stuck there: if he was to talk to the blacksmith and beg him for work, he had to at least look like he was a person and not some mad vagrant or forest-dwelling hermit. 

A wave of sticky, unpleasant heaviness came over him: was he, really, anything more than some mad vagrant? A shamed, clueless, lonesome peasant, insane enough to think he ever was anything more? Insane enough to still pursue that illusion, insane enough to delude himself he was still on some mission—too scared to admit he was lost, the cause was lost, and all was lost. 

Every last bit of honour, every last bit of hope, every last bit of identity that he fought so hard for, that he so carefully stoked into a fuller flame, that he so desperately tended to, was gone. All that he thought and hoped he was back in Rattay, back in Sasau, was gone.

It felt so foolish and impossible to think that just weeks ago he was standing right next to lords—lords!—helping them with military strategy, in that richly ornamented tent, being their trusted messenger and scout. That he was wearing full armour befitting a knight, that he was holding a sword worth more than half of Skalitz, that he had the courage and right to storm the walls of Talmberg shoulder to shoulder with the future lord of Pirkstein. That he was entrusted with the task of rescuing the two noble hostages, one of whom was his-

Henry shook his head. These thoughts would only drive him insane. There was no point in twisting the knife further—it was already buried deep. 

It had been three days since Hans drove that knife into his heart. 

The golden rays of morning sun and the harmonious song of birds faded entirely, muddled, irrelevant. The only thing that existed for Henry in that moment was the echo, as hurtful as the first time he heard all those words—the things Hans said to him in the stocks, the things he yelled at him back there, worse than anything the villagers could throw at him. Echo in a voice that just days ago he would lay his life on the line for. Voice he was so used to replaying in his mind, over and over again, so many times, that he deluded himself into believing he had some right to.

In the past, he would spend hours analysing the young lord’s words—especially the more reckless ones, ones that chased his sleep away many a night when he lied awake trying to decipher hidden meanings; hoping those hidden meanings were there. He had replayed things Hans said to him in his mind so many times that his voice felt as if it belonged to him, in some horribly intimate way. Each time Hans called him Hal. Each time he laughed at something he said. Each time he said something, anything, that Henry could greedily steal for himself, to analyse in those quiet moments, to treasure, to hide from the rest of the world.

And sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep—once he knew Hans’ voice so intimately and so well he could imagine him saying anything—he would close his eyes and have the vision of Hans in his mind saying things he would obviously never say. Things Henry would never dare repeat or admit to, not in front of any priest or any executioner, and things that made blood rush to his face immediately, burning hotter than the flames in the forge. Hotter than the flames of Hell itself, perhaps.

Now, however, the echo was different—it was cruel, relentless, and didn’t give in to any attempts of taming it. Everything Hans said at the stocks: dripping with venom and yet so painfully mundane, simple and obvious it made Henry nauseous with shame. 

It had been three days. The first one, Henry raged and cursed, stopping himself with all his strength from pursuing Capon and beating him senseless. The second day, he beat himself up for shouting at Hans in the stocks, for being too honest, for being too cruel—telling him no one would ever be proud of him—and he felt his eyes sting with tears he had to force himself to ignore. Maybe if he stopped himself from being honest, maybe then Hans wouldn’t have left him. 

The third day, tired and battered, he just gave in to every word this echo was throwing back at him. Perhaps the echo was right. 

Just who the hell do you think you are?! You’re in danger of crossing the line, Henry. Better keep your mouth shut. I shouldn’t have brought you along.

Henry stretched his aching shoulder as he walked down the hill, feeling the sun on his face.

Who else is to blame?! You’re just a stupid peasant who has no idea how the world works. I can’t believe I ever bothered with you.

A sheep, woken up from its peaceful sleep in the meadow, bleated and ran downhill.

You’re fucking useless. You couldn’t even keep an eye on your own mutt! Everything goes to shit when you’re by my side.

He felt colder, suddenly, as the sun hid behind heavier clouds; the air filled with the smell of rain.

My life went to shit from the first moment I met you—you’re like a ball and chain.

First droplets of water fell on Henry’s face as he walked toward the village.

You’re a waste of space. Fuck you. Not. Another. Word.  

The echo looped back viciously. Not another word—you’re in danger of crossing the line. That line; how easy it was for Hans to remind him of it. How easy it was for Hans to just shut him up. Put him back in his place, kick him down, remind him that by all the laws of God and nature they aren’t equal; they have never been equal, even when fighting or drinking or sleeping side by side, and they never would be.

There was an endless abyss between them—of state, of wealth, of upbringing, of their very nature—an abyss put between them by God himself, and enforced by every lord in every estate and every priest from every pulpit. 

It felt so ridiculous: how did he ever dare to believe things were different? He felt so hopeless, now, remembering how full his heart was when they were riding to Trosky, with their Rattay company: rich caparisons fluttering in the wind, Hans radiating with joy and hunger for adventure right by his side, his armour nearly blinding in the sun—his voice, bright and loud, echoing through the valley: this is why I love you, Henry!

Henry winced physically at that memory; it hurt worse than his shoulder and the cut on his arm and his split lip and his pride. He remembered how his heart skipped a beat back then, even though Hans threw that phrase his way so casually, so innocently—so recklessly, unaware entirely of what it would do to him. Good God, the pride that overcame him in that moment, the joy... As if Hans hadn't said that to whichever servant sneaked him more good wine than Hanush allowed, or to any bathhouse wench that ran his bath just the way he liked.

What is love for a noble, if not a rope tied around the necks of his subjects?

How stupid it was of him to forget that just weeks prior, mere weeks, the same voice echoed throughout the archery range at Rattay castle, mocking and cruel: I don’t know why you’re wasting your time, Sir Bernard. Nothing will come of him anyway, and at the first sign of trouble he’ll run away like any other cowardly peasant. After all, he’s done it before.

And then, at the tavern, in the post-curfew darkness, as his fist still ached from where it landed against Capon’s cheekbone: You’re not in your village now, boy. You can’t talk to me like that. How dare you raise your hand at your lord!? You need to be taught your place.

And in that early morning, when Sir Hanush forced Capon to take him as a page to go hunting: Have you got a horse? No? Well, you’ll have to just trot along behind me like a good dog. 

How foolish and sad of him to forget it all so quickly. He would cling onto Hans' every word yet forget those hurtful ones so embarrassingly quickly; his pride and honour irrelevant when wagered against even a crumb of the young lord's attention. 

How pathetic it was of him, back then in the Rattay baths, too; when Capon ridiculed the wench’s sweetheart, when Capon laughed even as he got nearly drowned, because the man beating him up was just a peasant and would get the pillory or the noose if he actually hurt him—how pathetic it was of Henry to think that in that moment he himself was different in the young lord’s eyes, somehow. That he was a friend, someone more, not just as lowly as Archibald.

And when he jumped to protect Hans, the sound of his fists making impact with the man’s face intertwining with Hans high-pitched laughter: how pathetic it was of him to think that in that moment he was anything else but just a guard dog set loose.

As the cool rain fell on his head, clarity—utmost clarity—was now returning to him. He would no longer delude himself: he would no longer have any misplaced idea that Hans and him were equal, that they were friends, that they… Henry wiped the rain from his eyes and ran his fingers through his drenched hair. The water seeped through the bandage on his forearm and the cut stung again. Still, he didn’t mind, neither the rain nor the pain. 

To young lord Hans Capon of Pirkstein, no matter whether he was the son of a village blacksmith or a noble's bastard, Henry was no more than a dog.

Useful to keep at your side at night, when the shadows and enemies frighten and threaten you; useful to keep at your side as a loyal and charming companion when a lady needs wooing. Useful to have him spill blood for you and guard you with his life; useful to have him keep you company and cheer you up, entertain you by begging for scraps at the end of your table.

And then, the moment the dog dares to disobey, all he’s good for is to be kicked, and all he can hope for is that the lord, in his infinite noble wisdom, doesn’t deem him rabid — and puts him down. 

Let it be so, then. Let him be the dog — and God have mercy on anyone who ever dares to kick him down again, lest they know how vicious he can bite.

Chapter Text

It felt so strange to be back at a forge: not just passing by, asking some local blacksmith for repairs he didn’t have time nor skill to do himself or using the wheel to sharpen his sword, but being back. Heating up the iron himself, the smell of it mixing with the smell of smoke and his own sweat, and the apple blossom brought by the breeze from somewhere far. Or was it cherry? Did they bloom so far into the year? The smell of flowers, delicate petals, white and pink, juxtaposed with the smell of iron and coal, made something turn unpleasantly in the pit of his stomach: not because the scent was off-putting—on the contrary—but because it brought back thoughts he did not want to give into. Henry shook his head to dispel whatever that was brewing in his tired head.

He brought the hammer down with as much strength as he could use knowing he had to beat the metal long and to a right rhythm; golden sparks flew and the ringing that filled his ears reminded him immediately of home. It was bittersweet. He brought the hammer down again, surprised at the ease with which he did so—back home, when he was helping his father, always only half-listening and half-assing, it would tire him out immediately. It would frustrate him, immediately, too, and he would feel himself grow prickly and unpleasant against his father’s patience. But now it was so easy—so natural, so simple. The heat of stray sparks sizzling against his bare skin felt as welcome as sunburn during reckless summers of his childhood.

“Sakra, boy,” he heard Radovan whistle, impressed, “you’re even stronger than you look, eh?”

Henry didn’t look up from the anvil, instead making sure to keep focusing on the heated metal, but he did feel a strange sting somewhere in his chest. It should be pride—but it wasn’t. He understood that forging was simpler now not for any mysterious and complex reason: nothing to do with his character, nothing to do with his mind or experience, nothing to do with some higher power guiding his hand or his father’s memory. It was just muscles. He was stronger now, after all, much stronger than he was back then. Much stronger that he ever thought he’d become: his shoulders broad, his arms coiling with tense, battle-won muscles. And so it felt easy. 

He brought the shaped and heated blade to the barrel and plunged it in, the sizzle muting out the involuntary sigh that escaped his mouth and the wild cloud of steam blissfully hiding the tears that he could feel welling up in his eyes against all his will. That was the bitter truth: he did not get this strong carrying sacks of grain or working in the field, and he did not get this strong working at the forge like his father would have wanted.

He got so strong from hours upon ungodly hours of fighting, sword heavy and bloodied as it swung, and he got so strong hauling the looted armour of his felled enemies from village to village to repair and sell, and he got so strong from carrying bodies to be hidden in the bushes and in the reeds, away from prying eyes, their bellies torn and their eyes gauged, leaving him as the only witness to his continued sin.

Yes, he was much stronger. But would his father even recognise him now? Would Ma?

Radovan patted him on the back as he was walking past him, pulling him out of this train of thought abruptly. Henry felt a wave of pain ripple through him from his shoulder and yet he didn’t even flinch. It was strange to think that an injury which back home—back then—would probably make him miserable for a year or more, now was nearly nothing: one of many. The pain became easier to withstand; much easier than he thought it’d ever become. 

“Well done,” the blacksmith said, “now, if you plan on getting the horseshoes done today, hurry up. If you make that much noise after the sun sets you ought to pray to the Blessed Virgin that my wife doesn’t kill you.”

“Right,” Henry said, not looking up. He reached for some more iron scraps.

“The woman needs her sleep!” Radovan laughed as he opened the door to his house. “And so do I, and do you. Don’t stay up too long.”

“Right,” Henry replied again, staring into the fire. “Wait. Radovan?”

“Mhm?” the blacksmith asked, halfway in and leaning out of the door to look at Henry.

“If I manage to get that Toledo steel, you promise to get me invited to the wedding?”

“Yes, yes, I told you already.”

“I asked around about the hermit and I plan to go to Apollonia tomorrow. If everything goes as I plan-”

“Now, now,” Radovan shook his head, “you know what they say, right? Man plans and God laughs.”

“Right.”

“Goodnight, Henry.”

“Goodnight.”

As the wooden door closed behind the blacksmith, Henry looked into the embers and realised he overheated the metal; he pulled it out and wiped the sweat from his brow against his arm, thinking what he should do next.

As the fire slowly died down, the forge cooled down a bit as well; the breeze brought the smell of flowers again. Henry understood that, just as he feared, it wasn’t an apple or cherry tree blooming. It was queen of the meadow; even though he hadn't spotted any around, he knew the smell of this plant very well, carried now by the evening wind. He could imagine it right away in his mind’s eye, spreading across the damp meadows, thousand small white flowers stark against its dark leaves. It was those tiny petals of meadowsweet—with sage and rosewater—that imprinted on his mind forever, and it seemed he would not be allowed to escape this smell even here, even hunched over the forge, even with the air heavy with the smell of iron and leather and his own sweat.

Meadowsweet, sage, rosewater. Hans’ hands. The nape of his neck, too, whenever he’d overtake Henry and walk in front of him. Mainly, still, his hands.

Henry would never admit he thought about this scent so hard and so often he quickly identified the ingredients without ever seeing them being used, without ever having them named explicitly. Henry has never seen Hans actually use it; he’s never seen him dip his hands into the mixture of these herbs but he knew he must have been doing it all the time. He could swear he must have had it brought to the baths, too, when he bathed.

He always smelled like that, even if it was faint, even if he smelled like steel and leather, too, and sweat, and horses. He probably hoped it would help him with the wenches—Henry doubted any of them even noticed. But he did. God, he did.

Every time Hans would pass him the reins, or pat his shoulder in passing, or even jokingly smack his face. As damning as the first time he caught his nostrils flare at the scent, as damning as the last time when they stripped it their armour to go bathe in the lake.

Meadowsweet, sage, rosewater.

Another thing Henry would never dare admit to was that this was also the reason why he never parted with Capon’s bow, all those weeks in Rattay, even though he could buy much better ones: he would laugh it off, say he liked old things he got used to once, just like riding the same horse all the time.

But the truth was much more damning: sometimes, very rarely, when he would aim the bow, the grip close to his face—when the wind would blow just right—the wood would give off that scent, like a long-hidden memory. Like a rosary. Even if for a moment. Hans’ hands. 

“Kurva,” he swore bitterly under his breath. Henry shook his head again and cast the iron away, a bit too impetuously; it made a loud sound as it fell.

Fuck him. Fuck Capon. It doesn’t matter. None of it does. 

Henry decided he was done for the day—at the smithy, at least. It was all too much; it was all going too slow. He needed to get to that wedding, meet Von Bergow, and as soon as possible. 

He quickly washed himself in the trough by the shed, just enough to get the smoke and sweat off his skin; he had to make a conscious effort not to breathe the evening air in too deep, not to let the ridiculous smell of flowers distract him.

During the weeks they knew each other, that would always be Hans’ way of giving him the needle—his small, incessant cruelty, one he was always too happy to tirelessly dispense—pointing out that God, Henry, you smell like shit! Do you even bathe? Do you sleep in the sty? Do you want to match your nag, scent wise? Or Mutt? It’s rank!

Always, endlessly, even if there was no cause for it—even if Henry literally bathed just moments prior, even if Hans had to sweat more to catch up to him and smelled worse, even then, he would ridicule him.

All fancy, piece of shit lord, with his scented waters and silks and soaps.

Fuck him. Fuck Capon. 

He went into his room, grabbed his longsword from the chest, and went around the forge to get Pebbles. In all this misery, at least he managed to get her back at Semine; it was possibly his only consolation so far, and petting the horse’s neck brought him some peace and calmed his nerves. He got into the saddle and he left for Apollonia just as the sun set, and the evening coloured everything around in low purples and blues.

He would get that steel for Radovan’s stupid sword, and he would get it tonight, and there was no mortal on this Godforsaken earth that could stop him.

Turns out, three knights of the Order of the Cross were more or less enough to stop him. Not for long, luckily—soon their bodies, partially stripped of their earthly belongings, bled into the rocky soil, calling out to crows. He weighed the crime against his heart, and it didn't make him flinch.

Still, he had to risk his life once again just to finally learn where the hermit was buried, and where his broken sword was. As he stood above his grave, beneath the tangled branches, he took off his gloves and shook out the last of the dirt: it got into his gloves when he was digging up Jan’s remains and burying them in the cemetery, and bothered him immensely as he fought. It was a relief to get the gloves off, one nearly matching in intensity that of finding the wretched Toledo sword at last. 

Henry looked at his hands, dirty and slightly bloodied, calloused from the sword and the shovel. An act of sacrilege and a prayer in the morning, bloody murder in the afternoon, God only knows what awaited him in the evening. Man plans and God laughs, eh?

He put the gloves back on, made the sign of the cross over the grave, and pulled the broken sword out of the ground. 

“Oh,” he muttered to himself under his breath, “that’s some proper steel right there. No rust at all.”

All the way back to Tachov, he marvelled at that piece of steel. He could imagine his father’s eyes lighting up at the sight of that steel—by God, the sword he could forge out of it, with his skill! It would, most likely, exceed in glory and quality even the sword he made for his father! That is, Radzig. That is-

Henry shook his head. He hated when that happened—when his own thoughts would tangle, betray his confusion so openly and brazenly, make him feel even worse—and he hated how often it would happen. Even in the stocks, when he cruelly spat his retort at Capon—I would not disappoint my parents like this—and the noble brat spat back: Which parents?

Martin? Radzig? Whose are you, boy? You poor wretch? Two fathers—or none? 

The sun was already low in the skies when he got to the village; Henry only understood how long he was gone for when he saw Radovan bolt out of his house, eyes wide in surprise.

“You scared the hell out of me, boy! I thought the devil took you,” he made the quick sign of cross across his chest. He ignored the blood soaked in by Henry's gambeson.

“No devil there, as it turns out,” Henry replied, unpacking the steel and trying to sound livelier than he felt. “Still, I got it. There you go.”

Radovan reached for the steel, eyes even wider. 

“Now, you promised-”

“Won’t be an issue for you, eh? I’ve seen your skill, Henry, and I’m sure you’ll do a great job. Fit for a king, no less, let alone Semine’s son!”

“You want me to forge the sword?”

“Yes! Why not!”

Henry stood there, speechless, for a longer moment. He tried not to think about the smell of the evening air. 

“Sure, I’ll do it,” he said, at last, leaving his things against the forge’s wall and picking up the leather apron. “If I hurry up I might even get it done before nightfall.”

“Aye, hurry up, before my-”

“Yes, yes, I know, your wife needs her sleep,” Henry tried to smile but, for some reason, failed. He couldn’t recall the last time he smiled. 

After Radovan disappeared in his house, Henry started working: even though he had to look at the schematics multiple times, it seemed like it would be simple enough. He brought the hammer down, and down again, and whistled to keep the rhythm—and it all came so naturally to him it made him pause. He had to reheat the blade again, and then remembered what the Sasau blacksmith told him about his process—Henry sighed to himself, content and proud he remembered it, and decided to use that method as well. 

The ringing was beautiful, and so were the golden sparks flying off the metal. His arm felt sore but in a good way, not a wretched one like the one sword or mace made him feel; the sword was gaining shape right before his eyes, and thanks to his skilled hands no less. It felt good.

Perhaps it really is in my blood, huh? Henry thought to himself, smiling. Then, he felt his smile immediately drop. It couldn’t have been in his blood. He wasn’t Martin’s son, now, was he? 

And what would Pa think, seeing him there, at a stranger’s forge, trying to make a sword fit for a king, to gift to some noble? Would he think it a mockery? Would he think it embarrassing—Henry’s attempts at following in his footsteps? Henry’s desperate clinging onto the idea of being the blacksmith’s son, even though he wasn’t? Or would he be proud, seeing his son pour his heart out into the craft, making a sword as great as the one he gifted his father? That is-

“No, not again,” Henry whispered to himself, desperately, returning to heat the metal up. “Stop doing it. Stop it.”

Whose are you, boy? 

As he quenched the blade, he felt a horrid wave of shame overcome him: he had barely buried his parents, their bodies and the burnt down Skalitz barely cold, and yet he rushed to call Radzig “father.” He called him that right away, as soon as he learned the truth.

How horrible was that? Pathetic, clawing at some sad facsimile of belonging. Henry shook his head, feeling despair weigh him down like a stone. There was no way he could attend the wedding with Radovan — there was no way he could bring the sword there as a gift. It would feel like some wretched spectacle, some mockery of what his father—Martin—did, the way he poured his soul into the sword for Radzig and gifted it to him. The sword Henry lost. The sword Henry failed to retrieve from Toth’s hands, time and time again. He felt nauseous.

There was no point in leaving a note—he doubted the blacksmith or anyone else in Tachov could read. He simply packed his things, put the finished sword neatly on his bed, and left, knowing he had to find someone else to bring him to that cursed wedding.  

Chapter Text

The sacks of flour were unreasonably heavy. At first Henry thought it was so exhausting and difficult because his shoulder didn’t have the chance to heal properly, nor the cut on his arm — but the third and fourth sack truly gave him pause. He was a bit too strong to be so easily tired out by flour. He carried the sacks back at the tavern, after all, before Hans fucked it all up, and it wasn’t nearly as tiring. And then, as the sixth sack hit the wagon and ripped, he was proven right — and got the chance to confront Kreyzl about it immediately, too. 

The miller was a strange man — stranger than any miller Henry met previously, and he has met a couple. And he was rude, too, although that seemed to be a trait shared by every miller under the sun equally. Henry thought about Peshek for a moment, and then felt his gut twist again at the thought that followed: Theresa. Poor girl. He wondered whether she still thought about him, sometimes — or if she assumed he had simply left her, abandoned her, forsaken her. He knew he would most likely not marry her — she said as much herself — but it didn’t mean he wanted to leave her so completely, and so soon. She saved his life, in more ways than just one, and he hated the thought that his disappearance must have broken her heart.

But it gave him hope, too: she was smart, and sweet, and so she would probably find a better man for herself quite quickly. One more deserving than Henry. Smarter. Less hot-blooded. Less reckless. Less like the wind, unable to settle, always called to the horizon and paths unwalked and stones better left unturned. 

If only one of his last memories of her wasn’t the one from the tavern, when he told her that Radzig was his true father — the one where her face lit up in excitement only to drop in sudden worry: Would you still care for me, if you were a noble? A simple mill girl?

Back then, he said that he would always care for her. And that was true, mostly because the hypothetical was utter nonsense: he was a noble’s bastard, not a noble. There was nothing noble about him, and no drop of his blood was considered noble, no matter his parentage.

The bitter truth was that if he was, indeed, a noble… He wouldn’t care for her. Of course he wouldn’t, no matter how sweet and smart and loyal she was; it just wouldn’t be in his nature. Perhaps he would have seduced her; slept with her all the same — but he wouldn't care about her, and she would not be a person in his eyes. There would be an insurmountable abyss between them, deep and wide and hopeless; an abyss put there by God himself. 

“I’ve got the nagging feeling you are not listening to me, boy,” the miller said, abruptly pulling him out of his train of thought. “Or are you just not very bright?”

“I am very bright,” Henry replied with a deadpan expression on his face. “Rathaus, you were saying?”

“Yes, and it is imperative the document finds its way back to me as quickly as possible.”

“Alright,” he shrugged. “Consider it done.”

“Go see Hensel, first, he’ll equip you with some… Appropriate… Equipment.”

Henry just nodded, unwilling to get into further discussion with the miller; besides, he could see the man’s mind drift off already, most likely thinking about something utterly ridiculous and out of this world, and so he walked around the mill to find the hired hand he mentioned back at the pen. 

“The miller sent me so I can get some lockpicks from you,” Henry said dryly, resting his elbows against the crooked wooden fence of the pen. The hired hands must have been brawling to pass the time: one of them was walking away, massaging his face, and Hensel was in the middle of putting his shirt back on, with his back turned to Henry.

Henry’s gaze fell on his back, for a very short moment: the young man was skinnier than him, more slender, even though still well-built; there were some scars and marks on his shoulders — most likely remnants of the sores of youth that plagued nearly each boy Henry has ever met — but nothing too visible. Between his lean waist and a head full of fair hair, tussled after the brawl, Henry’s mind rushed to make a very unwelcome connection. 

From afar, Henry thought bitterly, with that fair hair and lean frame, if he was dressed in some fancy silks-

He swallowed, hard, and banished these thoughts away stubbornly. He promised himself he wouldn’t think about him . And so he wouldn’t.

“You’re very straightforward, huh?” the hired hand laughed, stretching slowly. There was something impish in his laughter, and Henry had to focus very hard on not letting his thoughts wander again. 

“I guess,” he shrugged. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“Alright, alright, let’s go to the shed, I’ll give you what you need.”

As they were walking, the clucking of chickens filling the air in tandem with the rhythmic sound of the turning mill, Henry caught himself appreciating the fact that he was surrounded by other people, and by animals — instead of having to spend yet another night alone, wandering the forest — and understood he was glad to talk to someone his age, at last, too. Even if that someone reminded him of someone he’d promised himself he wouldn’t think about again, ever. 

“And are you good at it, at least?” the hired hand asked suddenly, throwing Henry off.

“Err… What?”

“Lockpicking, pickpocketing, man,” Hensel laughed again, “the subtle arts, you know, are you any good at it? Or will you get yourself caught like Zinek did?”

“I’m decent at it. Lockpicking at least.”

“And picking pockets? Do you want to try a couple of times?” he asked as they entered the shade of the shed. It was much quieter, there, too. 

“Won’t hurt, I suppose.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Hensel grinned. “I’ll turn around and we’ll see how you fare.”

Henry focused. It wasn’t his first time pickpocketing, or the twelfth, or the fiftieth, perhaps — but it’s been a long time, and the fall which damaged his shoulder even further limited his range of motion in a surprisingly annoying way. His first attempt was successful but the second one fell through — Hensel caught him right away, slapping his hand away. 

“You were doing well before,” he tutted, “don’t get impatient!”

“I’m impatient by nature,” Henry huffed. “Alright, turn around,” he commanded, and forced himself to ignore the speed with which the boy complied, “I’ll try again.”

And so he did; he succeeded, too, then a couple times more for good measure. It felt satisfying to know his fingers were still skilled enough to pull it off. 

“Wouldn’t have taken you for someone skilled in this,” Hensel said, walking him out of the shed and towards the stable. “With how you’re built and all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Henry asked, a bit too harshly, as he was preparing Pebble’s saddle to ride out. 

“Nothing bad,” Hensel giggled, again, “just that you seem like you’d be more inclined towards brawling rather than pickpocketing. Looking at your arms and all.”

“I’m a blacksmith,” Henry blurted out, as if he needed an excuse for why he was built the way he was; an excuse for why he was much stronger than he himself ever expected. 

“That explains the arms, alright,” the hired hand laughed and stretched his back again. “By the way, once you’re done with whatever the miller has asked of you, you should ask him about the fights. There’s some coin to be made, if you were interested.”

“I’ll think about it,” Henry said, looking down at the young man from his saddle. “Who would I fight?”

“Me, to start,” Hensel grinned. The grin would be charming, perhaps, if it wasn’t infuriating for reasons Henry didn’t have the heart to get into. 

On his way back to Troskowitz, he felt his nerves calm a bit: even though it’s been a long time since had to sneak around, and his wounds were still giving him trouble, he knew it was an easy enough task. More importantly, it was a task that would not threaten him with spiralling into memories and difficult feelings again.

Or so he thought, at least. But he was, after all, born under an unlucky star, and it seemed no task would spare him: when he got there, Zinek was still in the stocks. Henry thought it wouldn’t matter and it wouldn’t bother him. It did. He stopped in his tracks twenty paces away from the pillory.

I can’t believe I ever bothered with you. You’re fucking useless. You couldn’t even keep an eye on your own mutt! Everything goes to shit when you’re by my side.  

“I really need to find Mutt,” Henry said to himself, trying to calm his breathing. He had to focus on the dog. He had to focus on the dog, and on the task at hand, or else he would go mad. 

After talking to Zinek — stubbornly not thinking about the pillory and who was locked in it just days ago — Henry sneaked around the tavern, towards the Rathaus. It was already dark outside and he was lucky that evening: the skies were cloudy and neither the stars nor the moon had a chance to make his task more difficult. He felt the pleasant rush of adrenaline in his blood as he sneaked past the guard, quietly making his way down the steps; it would be disastrous if the guard caught him.

Like the guard in Rattay caught him, when he was sneaking in to steal wine for Capon. Henry felt a wave of anger run through him, unpleasant and hot. He was drunk that night: much drunker than he usually allowed himself to get, and all because sitting in that hot water with Hans, smelling like meadowsweet and him , went to his head and made his hands shake in a way that only wine could drown out. For the past however many weeks, he would blame his behaviour on his drunkenness that night — he only agreed to go and steal the wine because he was drunk and stupid. There was no other reason, and he certainly did not do it to greedily crawl into the young lord’s good graces. He certainly didn’t do it in some pathetic hope of getting him even drunker — blur the boundaries between them, test where that uncrossable line was and how adamant Hans would be about enforcing it. Push against it, and see whether Hans, brazen and bold thanks to the booze, reciprocates, knowing he would have to face no hard truths or consequences the next day; after all, with all this wine down their throats, who would not be called to sin?

Henry shook his head; this way of thinking would only drive him mad. 

Everything goes to shit when you’re by my side. My life went to shit from the first moment I met you. 

Back in Rattay, in the depth of the Rathaus cellar, caught rummaging for the stupid Sylvan red — if he wasn’t able to sweet talk the guard, he’d be fucked. Anger welled up in him again at that very thought: at the realisation how painfully and horribly easy it was for Hans to gamble with his life. His reputation, surely, yes, but his life most of all. He wasn’t a noble: getting caught stealing from the Rathaus would have been the end of him; no one even knew he was Radzig’s bastard back then. They would have had him whipped or branded, or worse, and Capon would probably only find out a couple of days later, once he sobered up, and not give a damn about it. 

You’re just a stupid peasant who has no idea how the world works. I can’t believe I ever bothered with you.

Fuck you, Henry thought. Fuck you. If there’s someone who doesn’t know how the world works, it’s you. 

He got out of the Rathaus, document in hand, and ran towards his horse; while he knew Kreyzl wanted the document right away, he decided to ignore that and instead go get his dog. At last. He had to focus on the dog or he’d go mad.

He made sure the blood in Mutt’s fur wasn’t his, and only after that was done he allowed himself to collapse. His back hit the cold, hard ground, no leaves or grass to soften the fall; he felt his head spin a bit. He wasn’t grievously hurt, it was just a couple of scratches and ripped clothing where the wolves’ teeth cut through the fabric; still, he was deathly tired. Mutt ran up to him, nuzzling his face and sniffing nervously, pawing at him — making sure he was alright.

“I’m good, I’m good,” he managed to get out, his voice unexpectedly raspy. “Good boy.”

He reached out to pet Mutt’s muzzle and felt some of his strength return to him at the very sensation of the dog’s fur beneath his bloodied fingers. The wave of relief which washed over him made him dizzy. 

“I’m so happy you’re alright, you silly boy,” he said, sitting up with considerable effort. Mutt was now running in circles around him, tail wagging wildly. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost you, you know?”

He stopped talking, feeling like his voice was about to break. His eyes started stinging again, and he nervously rubbed them with his hands before putting his gloves back on and reaching for his sword to sheathe it. It was covered in wolf blood and considerably duller than it was when he left Tachov; he didn’t spot a sharpening wheel at the miller’s but he really hoped there was one. He stood up and looked at his dog. 

“I’m sorry you were alone for so long,” Henry said. This time, his voice did break. This time he wasn’t quick enough to stop the tears: he felt his shoulders shake involuntarily and his chest heave with a low, deep sob. 

“I’m so sorry I left you.”

Mutt ran up to him, concerned, and Henry petted his head with both hands. He knew Mutt couldn't comprehend what he was saying — still, he hoped that at some level at least, the dog understood he didn’t want to leave him. He didn’t want him to be alone for so long: scared, lost, constantly on high alert and either fighting or fleeing frantically. Surrounded by wolves. 

Henry wiped his eyes with the back of his gloved hand, feeling the tears mixed with blood and dirt smear across his face.

“He was supposed to help me find you,” he said, suddenly, surprising even himself. His voice was still raspy, with a threat of another sob somewhere deep in his throat. “And instead-”

He swallowed, hard, and shook his head. He wouldn’t allow himself any pity; it was worthless and beneath him.

“Well, fuck him,” he said instead.

As they made their way back to Lower Semine, Henry nearly dozing off in the saddle and Mutt trotting beside Pebbles with his head held high, the clouds parted for a moment and let the bright light of the noon sun fall on them. The dog barked joyfully, as if in reaction to that, pulling Henry out of his drowsiness.

Have you got a horse? No? Well, you’ll have to just trot along behind me like a good dog.

Henry felt nauseous again, trying to banish the echo from his mind — but to na avail. 

He was supposed to help him look for Mutt, and yet he didn’t. He didn’t give a shit, truth be told, neither about Henry nor his dog, or anyone else but himself, for that matter. Henry wondered: how many dogs did Hans have, throughout his spoiled and cushy life? How many hunting hounds he didn't care to learn the names of, and didn’t even grieve when they succumbed to an illness or deep wounds torn in their sides by the tusks of wild boars? How many dogs he chose purely for their breed and esteem, and their price, and how many did he banish to the kennels once they bored him? How many times, informed that one of the dogs might be rabid, did Hans shrug — and commanded someone else to take care of it, forgetting all about the poor loyal wretch the next morning? 

Henry felt himself overcome with anger: the tears that escaped before, in the forest, unburdened him from the sadness. Now it was just rage; bitter, twisting, overwhelming.

Once he arrived, he handed the document to Kreyzl, half-listened to his rambling, and headed back around the mill towards the pen. 

Hensel was busy trying to fix a collapsed part of the fencing: someone must have gotten thrown at it and crushed it beneath his weight. By the bruise forming on Hensel’s back, right above the hemline of his breeches, Henry assumed it must have been him. 

“Are you good to fight now?” Henry shouted from far away, walking towards the pen. 

“Oh shit, Henry,” the hired hand raised his head, startled. “You scared me!”

“Easily scared, are you?”

Hensel grimaced in a way that made Henry take a deeper breath: apart from the one obvious connection, one he would not voice nor think about, Hensel reminded him of another person as well. Istvan Toth. He would grimace in the same way, eyebrows drawn, lips downturned, before bringing his expression back to that epicene and phlegmatic countenance of his. It caused something in Henry to recoil. It caused something ugly to brew deep within him.

“That your dog?” Hensel asked instead, biting his lip. “Or did you just find him in a ditch somewhere?”

It was clear Hensel wanted to rile him up, push back for that “easily scared” comment; he did so playfully, with a smirk dancing somewhere on his lips. Unfortunately — for him, but for Henry as well — Henry was not in the mood for jesting. He was not in the mood for teasing, and he was not in the mood for stupid comments about Mutt, comments he has heard countless times again before, from a mouth just as punchable as Hensel’s. The echo rang out in this mind again.

Good God, Henry, the only thing smelling worse in this camp than you is your mutt! Should I banish you both to the baths?

He did not reply to Hensel. Instead, in silence, he took off his gloves and couters, and his coat; he got out of his cuirass, casting it aside with a loud clunking noise.

“Alright,” Hensel laughed. It was a nervous giggle, betraying his surprise even more than the look in his eyes. “Guess you want to fight now? You did say you were impatient but I didn’t think-”

The rest of the sentence was knocked out of his mouth, leaving him slightly stunned and breathless. Hensel’s eyes widened in disbelief for a brief second and then his expression changed into one of focus: he quickly switched his stance, bringing his fists up to block the next blow. And the next blow came quickly: Henry, even though he was so tired just moments before, found a new reserve of strength, and pummelled Hensel mercilessly. He found it immensely satisfying when the first stream of blood flowed underneath his clenched fist, colouring Hensel’s chin in bright red. 

“Oh, fuck,” the hired hand gasped, bringing his hand to his split lip. Perhaps in his mind that would signal the end of their fight — but not in Henry’s. Without a clear statement of yielding, he assumed the duel was not over; he revelled in the fact that he managed to catch the boy off guard, again, this time kicking him back and making him fall on his back, knocking the wind out of his lungs. 

Henry then lunged and straddled Hensel, ready to —  in case the boy dared to keep riling him up — dish out more vicious punches. There was a shadow of fear in Hensel’s eyes as he looked up at Henry, and something turned deep within Henry’s stomach at that sight. Unfortunately — for Hensel, again, but for Henry, too — it was a strangely and indecently good feeling. That ugly thing which brewed within him before was hungry for more. The young man squirmed beneath him, and Henry felt his muscles tense under his weight; even through the padded chausses he was still wearing, he felt Hensel’s body tense and twitch against his thighs. 

“Alright, shit, alright,” Hensel waved his hands in protest, letting his head hit the ground and sighing deeply. “Get off me, you madman. You won.”

They both got up. Henry wanted to say something — but before he could, he realised Hensel was gone, already halfway through the way to the other side of the mill, in a rush to get away. 

Henry didn’t know why Hensel was in such an unimaginable rush: he didn’t beat him that severely, after all, and it was all just a part of the wager. He would, however, soon find out exactly why.

Which was, again, unfortunate: for both of them.

Chapter Text

The crackling of flames under the pot mixed itself with the faraway, rhythmic scratching of grasshoppers, and the evening air cooled his skin as he sat back on the grassy ground in front of the Lair. Bonnie was playing with Mutt a couple of paces away, her face dimmed by shadows every time she moved farther away from the fire; even though he couldn’t see her expression, Henry could tell she was happy in that moment. It made him smile: knowing that Mutt made her happy, that his wagging tail and silly running around consoled her, at least a bit, after losing her own dog. Seeing her with his dog brought Theresa back to his mind, but only for a fleeting second: Bonnie couldn’t have been more different than her. Thinking about Theresa was pointless, anyway. 

“And, so,” Bonnie said, catching her breath and sitting down on the log next to him, “did he agree? The gravedigger?”

“He did,” Henry replied, finishing his food. “Not for free, though.”

“Did you buy the meat like I told you?”

“I… Well, the butcher kind of chased me away, so no.”

“Uh-huh,” Bonnie shook her head slowly. “Did you try to steal a sausage or some such?”

“No,” he shrugged, “I asked a couple of questions too many, I guess, and annoyed him.”

“Mhm. You do ask a lot of questions.”

“Do I?”

Bonnie laughed.

“Well, I for one, I don’t mind. I like that about you.”

“Thanks,” Henry replied, looking into his bowl absent-mindedly. He didn’t want to confess that the argument with the Troskowitz butcher happened quite a few days ago — back when he was still trying to find out where Hans could have gone. And he didn’t feel like confessing that he wanted to avoid returning there so, so desperately: out of fear this time the butcher would actually know something . He didn’t want to know where Hans had gone. He didn’t want to think about him at all. He didn’t want to think about the speed with which his resolve would break the second someone gave him any useful directions.

“So, what do you have to do?”

“Help him with his work. At dawn,” Henry replied, stretching slowly. His shoulder still ached, but less so. It would have probably healed fully by now — if it wasn’t for the beating he gave Hensel two days before. He tried his best not to think about that ever since it happened: he hasn’t seen Hensel since, and truth be told, he didn’t want to. Something dark and ugly and angry swirled somewhere within him and he couldn’t decipher what it was — or why Hensel, out of all people, brought it to the surface. 

“Oof, tiring work, that. Not very pretty, either.”

“Well, then that sounds perfect for me, I guess,” Henry tried to keep his tone light-hearted but he didn’t do a very good job. “I should set out soon, too, if I’m to make it to the cemetery before the sunrise.”

“That you should. Do you have to take your dog with you?”

“You know I do.”

“Yes, yes…” Bonnie sighed, reaching to her pouch and pulling out some of the herbs Henry brought her before. “I know. It was a stupid question.”

“There are no stupid questions, only stupid answers!” Henry replied, wagging his finger at her. She laughed. 

“Tell that to the butcher, eh?”

Henry laughed as well. It was good to talk to someone, finally, and joke, and laugh. He felt as if he had been alone for months or years. 

“But, speaking of questions, I didn’t answer the one you asked me in the morning,” Bonnie started, picking at the purple bloom of sage in her hands. “I was in a convent, if you would believe.”

“Nothing surprises me any more, I think,” he replied, moving a bit farther to the side so as not to smell the sage. “I was in the cloister too, if you would believe it.”

“How tangled the paths of man can be.”

“Wise words,” he said, and Bonnie shrugged. 

“Aye, well, have fun,” she added as he got up to go get Pebbles. “And remember, you’ve got to taste the saltpetre to make sure it’s not just-”

“I know, I know,” Henry nodded. “You get some sleep, alright? Once I’m back, I’m sure Mutt won’t leave you alone until you play with him again."

“I hope so,” she grinned, adding logs to the fire. “Now shoo, go, or you’ll be late. The gravedigger hates when people are late.”

Henry rode down to the mill, slowly, and then farther ahead towards Troskowitz. He looked around, praying it wasn’t noticeable: all in the hope he would see Hensel somewhere, but he was nowhere to be found. Other hired hands made themselves busy with different tasks around the stable and the shed, and Henry even thought about asking them if they had seen him — before quickly deciding against it. 

The rhythmic echo of grasshoppers was joined by the whistling, repeated melody of a song thrush trilling somewhere up in the trees: the harmony of a summer’s night. Pebble’s hooves hit the ground slowly and with no rush, and Henry knew that it was time to pull out and light his torch — but there was something so strangely comforting in this darkness that he delayed it as much as he could. The night was peaceful: no wolves could be heard, no bandits lurking in the shadows, and the weight of his longsword hanging from his belt gave him comfort enough to dispel any worries. The moon was already high in the skies, its silver glow pouring down on the darkened leaves of the forest around him and reflecting in the mellow bends of the lake below. 

He wondered when was the last time he felt so at peace. He knew it was fleeting, that peace, undeserved; he knew it would be gone soon, it would leave him, all the worry and fear and anger returning and drowning out anything else. But in that moment, in that short moment, he felt at peace; soon he recalled, very starkly, what the last similar moment was.

It was the mass at the break of dawn, back at the Sasau Monastery. He was wearing the robes of a monk, stripped of his weapons and his coin and all other earthly possessions; he was there to kill a man and yet he allowed himself more peace that he tasted for many weeks prior. No one there knew him. No one cared about his parentage, no one cared about his strength or warfare skills, no one cared about what was happening outside the monastery walls: all he knew there, for days, was peace, and prayer, and the smell of ink on his fingers. Meals shared with others without a word uttered. Work from dawn until dusk. Well-deserved, safe sleep. And then, at dawn, again: the mass. The monastery’s walls humming with the hymns alongside the monks — along his, so painfully unskilled yet so honest, singing — and the rising sun, sneaking in, casting a holy glow on the frescoed walls. 

He couldn’t be a monk, not really — he knew it would drive him insane, eventually, he was too restless and too hot-blooded for it — but it was a welcome reprieve in the madness of those weeks in Sasau, and sometimes at night, when he was alone, he thought whether one day he shouldn’t consider it again. After spilling all this blood — even if the cause was righteous — all that sinning, all that sacrilege… Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not steal, thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife; and that's just a couple of them, anyway. Perhaps it would make sense to make up for all his evil that way. Give himself fully to the Lord and to his service. Repent, like Johanka taught him.

He lit his torch, the warm light casting long shadows on the path before him. Many monks were at the monastery to repent: some willingly, some because they were forced by their families, and some again because they were pressured by the law itself. Perhaps he would find a kindred soul there: to share a quiet meal with, to gather and prepare herbs, to pray with at dawn. Maybe not someone like Jodok, whom Henry believed to be a truly rotten wretch, and perhaps not someone like Siskin, a bit too arrogant and noble for Henry’s liking… A stronger wind blew and he had to extend his arm with the torch away from his face. Definitely not someone like Lucas, either. With his stubborn silence and his dry, shy disposition, and his-

Henry shook his head, feeling strange uneasiness wash over him. He recalled — as vividly as if it happened mere moments ago — the fear in the novice’s eyes when he told him what he knew about him. When he cornered him that one evening, frustrated with how slow his investigation into Pious was going, and frustrated with what he learned about the man, too — and how he confronted him, so openly and nearly aggressively. For no real reason.

I’ve heard you enjoy the company of men, echoed in his mind in his own voice. That fear in Lucas’ eyes imprinted itself in his mind, debilitating, and Henry wondered, during many sleepless nights, what was the source of that fear, really. Was Lucas simply scared that he was found out, more shocked than anything else? So surprised, in fact, that he felt the need to rush to defend himself, so eagerly? To swear in front of this utter stranger that he’s not giving into that sin, that he’s chaste, that he’s given himself to the Lord to escape those tendencies? Was he scared because he feared Henry would tell others? Or —  and Henry felt his throat tighten painfully — was he scared that Henry would hurt him, knowing what he was?

Would it be possible to repent for all that I've done? Henry's thoughts were relentless. All that I know I will do? Suddenly, it felt like even thinking of returning to the monastery was sacrilegious. Blasphemous; even though worse men than him were allowed peace within its walls.

But I am nothing like them, Henry thought to himself, the vision of repenting within the monastery walls swirling in his head. I am nothing like Jodok, nothing like Siskin. I’m nothing, nothing like Lucas. 

I'm not... I'm not Gregor. I'm not.

God. I'm not.

Another wave of heavy, unbearable warmth came over him: a mix of guilt and shame, and something else he did not dare decipher. He gritted his teeth, instead, and squeezed his calves against Pebble’s sides, urging her to go faster through the night. 

It was dusk, again, when he got back to the mill. He was tired: his joints were aching, his shoulder felt like it was being ripped apart with iron tongs, and his hands were once again unimaginably calloused from the shovel. His head hurt, too, because he had just enough idle time riding on the gravedigger’s cart to think, and so he kept thinking. He kept thinking about Hensel, and about Lucas, and even about Istvan Toth, and he tried very hard not to think about Hans — which meant he thought about Hans most of all. It drove him wild, and with every single thought he kept beating himself up, feeling wretched and hopeless. He wished the anger would return, yet no matter what he did and what he tried to imagine or relive or think about, it just wouldn’t. All that rang out in his head were the bells of the monastery, calling him, as if mockingly: repent, repent, repent. He felt bitterness fill him up like lead. Tart like sloe.

Still, the worst part of that day was the stench. Even though he’d been riding in the wind for hours, and even though he did his best to wash himself in the trough, he still smelled like the sum of his activities: the rotten deer, the bloated pigs, the carcass saltpetre pit. He himself was no longer nauseous — but he knew anyone else who passed him would surely be, and so he tried to avoid any people on his way back to the mill. 

Once he crossed into Lower Semine, the skies were already dimmed in pink and blue hues. The reeds, dancing with the wind, were still quiet; soon, however, the land would fill with the song of frogs and the melody of many birds. Henry wanted to use this moment of quiet to have some more peace for himself: he got down from the saddle and brought Pebbles to one of the farther river bends, and down along the shoreline to the spot where he knew the lake was shallow and well-hidden behind a wall of sway. There, he let her graze, with Mutt sniffing around in circles around her — while he started to undress himself. 

He took everything off: all his armour and his chainmail, his clothes and padded layers, and his undershirt and braies as well, casting it all aside in one horrid-smelling heap. He had soap enough packed in the saddlebags to be able to launder it later; all he dreamed of in that moment was to get into the lake, feel the cooling water against his skin, have it wash everything away. Henry knew no one would pass that spot — he chose it for that very reason — and so he did not worry about stripping fully naked. 

The first step from the shore into the water was unpleasant: not only was the sand beneath his feet uneven and horribly soft, as if it wanted to pull his feet in, but he also felt a wretched shiver run down his spine — and it wasn’t the cold. He realised the last time he allowed himself to take his armour off and leave it on the shore, and get into the water, and relax, was precisely that damning and foolish moment which led to their Rattay company being slaughtered and their letter being stolen. 

“No, don’t do this,” he whispered to himself, “that wasn’t your fault. Fuck him. Fuck him. Don’t think about it.”

He waded deeper into the water, nearly up to his knees now; the wind that made the reeds and sway dance felt pleasant against his back and his legs, and his headache eased with every step he took farther into the lake. It was darker now, the sun already hidden behind the horizon, but there was still light enough not to need a torch to see; the surface of the water, calm, reflected the pink and purple clouds above. Henry inhaled, slowly and deeply, and felt his mind calm down in tandem with the nature around him. He reached down to gather water into his cupped hands and splashed it on his face; then, he reached down again and poured more water on his shoulders and his chest, small pleasant shivers running down his sides at how cool it was.

He splashed more water on his body, bringing his hands across his stomach and his armpits and his neck to wash away the dirt and the sweat. He let his palms linger longer on his arms, the muscles tense and more defined than they were mere months ago, covered in a myriad of scars — he ran his palm down his chest, too, toned like the rest of him, across the hair and marks and more scars. He tried not to think about how long it was since anyone touched him.

Then, still standing in the knee-deep water, in the last light of day, Henry realised someone was watching him — from the other shore. He felt the gaze on his back, relentless, and it sent a peculiar wave down his spine. 

He turned around, slowly, somehow knowing very well who he was about to see. And he was correct. 

Hensel was standing on the shore, leaning against the twisted black alder tree: his expression was blank and he did not speak, he just met Henry’s gaze without blinking. And Henry decided to do the exact same thing — he simply looked at Hensel, unblinking, and then resumed his interrupted task, bringing more water up to his body and washing himself. He waded, slowly, deeper into the water, feeling Hensel’s stubborn eyes on his skin: on his shoulders and his back, on his chest and his waist, his stomach and his buttocks, and his neck, even his calves. Hensel did not deny himself the sight of anything, watching silently from the shore. Neither of them said anything in that evening quiet; only the sound of splashing water and wind in the trees could be heard. 

From afar, his own thought returned to haunt him, with that fair hair and lean frame, if he was dressed in some fancy silks-

But is that it? His own mind mocked him, quietly. Or are you thinking of someone else?

Worse?

Like that trough, on the brink of summer. Gaze that burned; bitter laughter, like a bark. Somebody else's name. Not Henry.

Henry inhaled and slowly submerged his whole body in the cool water of the lake — and when he emerged, drenched and gasping for air, Hensel was gone. 

He got out of the water, laundered his braies and undershirt—put them on still dripping wet—and gave the rest of his things a quick wash, knowing it was already too dark to do it properly and he’d have to repeat it all in the morning anyway. Then, focusing very hard on not thinking about what transpired and why he himself behaved the way he did — and allowed for it, and dared imagine someone else watching him hungrily from that shore — he took Pebbles and Mutt to sit by the warmth of the fire in a makeshift camp closer to the mill. 

Once he got back to the mill itself, dried, everyone was asleep; Henry hoped to climb to the loft and crawl into his bed, and fall asleep surrounded by the smell of hay and dust and no carcasses or graves or poisoned, rank water. He hoped for the mercy of dreamless sleep, too. 

“Malik tells me you haven’t fought him yet,” he heard, suddenly, from the darkness within the room. “Ran out of money or did you chicken out?”

Henry felt his jaw clench. He turned out and looked at Hensel, standing there leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. 

“You’re the one to talk, eh?” Henry’s voice was bitter, purposefully sneering. “I beat the shit out of you so hard you ran for the hills. Disappeared for two days.”

“Aw,” the hired hand grinned, pushing himself off the wall and taking a step towards Henry, “noticed, did you?”

“Is there something you want?” Henry asked instead, harshly.

“Realised you could use some more help,” the boy said. “Zinek told me everything went smoothly at the Rathaus. Guards didn’t even notice a thing.”

“That’s good, you get that part, right?” Henry could feel his blood pressure rise. The impish confidence and incessant grinning started to drive him wild. 

“Hm, yes, but it might also mean you got lucky, sneaking past. What if the guard hadn't left his post? What if he turned around? Would you know what to do then?”

“Yes,” he replied, images of many men he choked out or knocked out from the shadows back in Sasau flooding his tired mind. 

“With that busted shoulder of yours?”

Henry grimaced. 

“All I’m saying,” Hensel said, raising his hands in a defensive gesture, “is that you might benefit from some low-stakes practice. Sneaking, takedowns, the works.”

“And what, you’re supposed to be the expert, huh?”

“Well,” Hensel shrugged, “not an expert, no. But I’m willing to help. Simple.”

“Maybe I don’t need your help. Have you thought about that?” Henry spat out and looked at the hired hand. 

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” the boy shrugged again. “If you want to, we can go to the shed and practice. Everyone else is asleep. If not, that’s your choice.”

Henry stood there, silent, feeling himself get even angrier: there was something deeply infuriating about that boy, a mix of cockiness and indifference, a constant challenge with nothing to back it up with. Like a dog that barks and barks, but yelps and runs away the second you approach him — only to circle back and try to snap at your ankles the second you turn his back to him. 

“I’m not gonna shank you in the dark, Henry, if that’s what you're worried about,” there was a hint of mockery in Hensel’s voice. “It’s just practice, that’s all. Don’t overthink it.”

Perhaps it was the overthinking comment, or the face the hired hand kept making, or the fact that Henry’s headache was returning from all that strangely pent-up rage; no matter what aspect or combination of them caused it, the effect was clear.

“Sure, fuck it. Let’s go,” Henry said. “But I won’t go easy on you.”

“Didn’t expect you to,” Hensel grinned in the darkness, and led him back towards the shed. 

And so Henry did not go easy on him — on the contrary. The moment Hensel turned around and Henry crouched, surrounded by the soft darkness of the shed and the silence of the summer night, he felt blood rush to his head — only for it to suddenly level, entirely, and bring about a cold lucidity; calculated, balanced, ready to act. He pounced at him, momentum itself nearly enough to throw Hensel off balance and make his knees buckle: but Henry hooked one arm under his, steadying him forcefully, bringing the other to his face to drown out the gasp about to leave his lips. He felt the hotness of Hensel’s mouth against his palm, the pressure of air as he tried to breathe; then, feeling the strange swell of something dark and ugly within him returning, Henry pressed his hand harder, and harder, with way too much force that was needed. He squeezed his other arm more forcefully, too, crashing Hensel’s shoulder and side, fingers digging into the soft flesh over his collarbone, pressing him against his own body and pushing out the rest of the air from his lungs. He could swear he felt the frantic beating of Hensel’s heart, thrashing like a hare in snares; panicked. The animal within Henry purred with cruel satisfaction.

He felt Hensel struggle against him, his lean back flush against Henry’s chest and stomach; his legs desperately trying to find purchase against the straw-strewn floor of the shed. He tried to hit him, elbow swinging back against Henry’s ribs, but he didn't even flinch at the impact. Then, in the quiet of the night, he felt the boy’s body tense, and push back against him — and second after second, twitch after twitch, he felt it soften, and yield; finally, Hensel went entirely limp in his arms, head dropping forward.

A wave of vicious satisfaction surged through Henry’s veins; he realised his own breathing was much more ragged, heavier than he expected, and his heart pounded wildly in his chest. It was adrenaline, surely, but also this strange, cruel excitement which he did not want to think about. Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not steal, thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, and all the rest, up to that sacredly rounded number of ten... Henry found it bitterly funny that for all the gravity and value vested in the commandments by every pope and priest and housewife, the sin that haunted him the most wasn't even on the list.

For the briefest second, making his heart nearly stop, he heard the monastery bells ring out in his head. The air of the shed suddenly smelled like blood: like red wine and Hungary water.

Then, the muscles in his arms tensed with a dull ache at the weight of Hensel's body. Henry panicked, suddenly overcome with absolute fear: what if he went too far? What if he actually killed him?

Instead of dropping Hensel’s limp body on the floor like he intended initially, back when he was overcome with rage and the need to put him in his place, he laid it down carefully and quietly. He took a deep breath. Please, God-

Hensel opened his eyes abruptly — and there was no fear or confusion there, there was no fog or distress. The spot above his collarbone was already blooming with deep bruising. The fair-haired boy grinned, widely and wildly; infuriatingly. He looked, upside down, from the floor, back at Henry. 

The dark cruelty within Henry — suppressed shamefully for so long, and now inadvertently released — wasn’t met with scorn or fear, or confusion.

Instead, to his own horror, it was met with shameless, grinning satisfaction, and the hunger for more. 

Chapter Text

Henry did not sleep well that night: neither the smell of hay nor his own exhaustion succeeded in bringing him peaceful rest. For the first hour, his heart pounded too wildly in his chest to even allow him to fall asleep: the feeling of Hensel’s body thrashing against his and then giving in, overpowered, rushed through his veins like badly brewed moonshine. Burning, hurting, teasing; bringing him to a place somewhere between disorienting, dizzy pleasure and the need to get up and vomit. 

Then, once he calmed down, focusing stubbornly on breathing in and out, steadily, Henry closed his eyes. He could get up and pray, hoping that it would bring him peace enough to sleep—but something within him told him that the only thing it’d bring would be the monastery bells ringing out in his head. Repent, repent, repent. 

He could get up and pack his things, get in the saddle and ride, disappear, far away, anywhere. He could, if it wasn’t for the fact that he needed to get to that wedding. If it wasn’t for the fact that he needed to continue the mission he was sent on-

They were sent on.

Henry gritted his teeth so hard he could feel the ripple of pain shoot through his skull. He couldn’t allow himself to think about him, too. Not now. 

The only way to escape thinking about that evening—the things he felt, the things he knew he shouldn’t have been allowing himself to feel, and all the things he knew his feelings really meant—was through letting himself think about something even worse.

Fight fire with fire; drown the hurt in something more painful. Banish the echo of Hensel’s frantic heartbeat and banish the echo of his lord’s cruel voice; banish it all, and let himself fall asleep, instead, to something even more horrid. And so Henry inhaled in and out, and let exhaustion take over: and fell asleep, to the imagined—relived—sounds of pillaged Skalitz in his head. 

Perhaps he hoped he would dream about Skalitz, then, too: crimson, cruel dreams, filled with smoke and shrieks for help.

Perhaps dreaming about Skalitz would have been a mercy. Perhaps it would have been a kindness—but Henry was, after all, born under a cursed star, and the fates would not spare him. 

In the swirling, hazy duskiness of his dream, Henry found himself crouching: silent, alert, patient. Quiet like on a hunt, arrow notched, ready to fly if he willed it. Hidden from the warm pool of light two paces in front of him, with his back to the dark and cold wall behind him, he waited.

He could hear the familiar rhythm of steps somewhere beyond the dreamed chamber he was in, coming closer and closer—reckless and entirely unaware. The door opened. Of course he didn’t notice him as he entered—God, has he ever noticed anything other than himself?—and turned his back to the shadows where Henry was waiting.

Lean frame, fair hair, the way he always shifted his weight slightly to the left. He asked him about it once, when he drank just a bit too much, another night camping somewhere at the edge of the Rattay forest: The first horse Hanush gave me, if you can believe it. I think he did it on purpose, to teach me some lesson, giving me a wild horse like that… Threw me off the first day! I fell on my right arsecheek like a total fool, and since then, the old leg likes to give me trouble if I stand in place too long, makes dancing stop hurting only if I'm drunk like Bacchus himself.

Henry swallowed and focused harder on the figure in front of him instead of any of its past words echoing in his mind. His neck was bare, utterly defenseless; Henry felt his hand hover over the hilt of the dagger attached to his belt.

He didn’t want it to happen with a blade. He wanted to use his bare hands. Get all that blood and hurt and dirt on his milky white neck; drag him down into the gutter that ordinary, mortal men toiled in day in and day out.

Inhale in, exhale out—and Henry pounced, from the shadows to the light, crashing body against body, hooking one arm under his immediately, overwhelming him. He brought his other hand up to his mouth to muffle any scream that might have escaped, soft and wet and surprised; then, he pressed, and pressed, and pressed, body against body, with force enough to choke all life out of him. Beneath the snarling weight of Henry, he tensed, and thrashed, and struggled against him, and Henry could feel every spasm of every muscle go to his head like wine.

And then, the struggle stopped, softly—his body went limp. Henry felt dizzy as it dawned on him: it did not go limp out of breathlessness. He did not lose consciousness. 

He relaxed.

He rested his head back, against Henry’s shoulder. His slim hand touched his arm, slowly making its way to his wrist, caressing the skin flecked with pale scars and dark sun-marks. Henry’s hand across his mouth eased its pressure, then dropped. 

“Oh, Hal,” Hans said, gently. His fingers curled around Henry's wrist. His body sank against him even further: soft, familiar. He exhaled, resting his weight fully against Henry’s chest, yielding into his arms with heartbreaking trust.

Hans’ neck was bare—and so was the spot right over his collarbone where, before, Henry’s fingers were digging into his body. Where, if they were in the waking world, a dark bruise would already be blooming from the cruel pressure of his fingers.

But there was no bruise there in the dream—there was no opposition, no anger, no vicious echoes. Lightheadedness overcame him as he realised how it felt to wrap his arms around Hans’ frame: lean, a bit shorter than him, and so careless, defenseless, trusting; giving into the protection that Henry’s arms offered. Sacred.

Henry lowered his head, pressing his mouth against his neck: his skin hot and soft, and smelling unmistakably like Hans. Slowly, he planted kiss after kiss—the first faint, devotion rather than passion; some, then, much hungrier, leaving small love bites in their wake, and stark red scratches from his stubble across Hans’ shoulder and the crook of his neck, up to the spot behind his ear. 

A soft moan escaped Hans’ lips, mixed with a pleasant, surprised chuckle. 

He was about to say something—but then a bell rang, somewhere, far away, so suddenly, and Henry woke up abruptly. 

Dawn broke over the mill, and the air filled with all the sounds of busy life: morning greetings, the grinding of stone against grain, noise of chickens and horses, loud crash of water dumped from a bucket on the grass outside. 

Henry woke up, inhaling sharp through gritted teeth, and hid his face in his hands. He was overwhelmed with the crushing, two-fold sensation: one, stubborn tears welled up in his eyes, stinging, sharp; not enough to cry but enough to haunt him.

And the other, as he tried to get up from his bed and looked down at himself, straining against his rough braies: a sadly apparent reminder of how long it had been since anyone has touched him; hard, unallowing to be ignored, and spreading warm, unpleasant waves of throbbing shame across his body. 

It was a peaceful, sunny day at Troskowitz: the cows grazing in fields full of poppies and cornflowers filled the air with low, pleasant mooing, and a faint, sweet melody of the musician’s flute could be heard from the tavern. Henry got down from the saddle, absent-mindedly patted Pebble’s broad neck, and entered the tailor’s dimly lit store. 

“Praise be to our- oh, you’re the fellah from the stocks, eh?” The tailor’s voice wasn’t unkind, for a change. 

“That’d be me,” Henry replied, preparing himself to hear something unkind next anyway. 

“Found your friend?” the man asked, smiling. 

He was not prepared for that question. 

“I-uh, well,” he cleared his throat, “no, but that’s a long story and, now, well, I have a different pressing matter.”

Oh you did have one pressing matter this morning, didn’t you? His own voice mocked him in the back of his head. 

“Certainly,” the tailor replied, deciding not to pry further. “What can I help you with?”

“I need good quality clothes for a very important celebration. That is, a wedding.”

“Oh! Well, you have chosen very well, then, coming here! Do you have anything specific in mind?”

“A red brocade dress, for a start.”

The tailor looked at Henry; he could see in the man’s eyes that he was in the mood for jesting. But, in turn, the tailor could see in Henry’s eyes a rather dangerous glint threatening to let his short temper loose, should that particular joke be attempted at that very particular time.

Thus, the tailor decided not to make that joke, even though he really, really wanted to.

“And for me, I need a new coat and a hood… Embroidered, I’d say. And a gartered hose, too, maybe?”

“Oh, a man of taste!” the tailor exclaimed, turning around to rummage through his shelves and chests. He wanted to make a surprised remark about his new customer’s taste juxtaposed with his social standing—or, the lack of it—but one, he was a paying customer, after all, and two, that glint in the customer’s eyes and that crossbow on his back were also very kindly reminding him not to say anything too silly. 

“Any colour preference?” the tailor asked, holding a couple of items in his hands and comparing them, brows furrowed in focus.

“Reds, browns, greens. Dark colours are alright as well.”

“Wide range!” the tailor smiled again. “Any colours you know you don’t want?”

“Yellow.”

“It is a very fashiona-”

“No.”

“Right.”

Then, the tailor proceeded to show Henry a couple of items and helped him put them on to make sure they fit well; some adjustments were needed, especially in Henry’s shoulders—broader than the average well-off man who would be purchasing these—but it was quick work. Soon, Henry handed him a rather heavy coin purse, thanked him, and left, letting the mooing of cows outside into the shop for a brief second before the door closed behind him. 

The tailor shook his head slowly, weighing the coin purse in his palm.

“Just a couple of days ago this fellah was in the stocks, smeared in shit and cabbage. And now?” He said to himself. “Youth these days, I swear… The world is turning upside down.”

Henry heard the tailor mutter to himself through the window; still, he inhaled slowly, a breath in and out, in and out, and went to get his horse. He still had to secure a companion to accompany them to the wedding—and one willing to scheme, too, and put up with the chamberlain; there was no time to waste.

If he had time, he knew he probably would have turned around on his heel and barged through the door to see whether the tailor would be still as eager to make comments face to face. But there was no time to waste, and his temper had to be reined in. 

He rode towards Zhelejov, sun in his eyes and wind at his back. The day was so peaceful—or, rather, it would be, if it wasn’t for all that was brewing within him; all those feelings he tried so hard to keep buried and how pitifully easy it was for him to fail, set off by the simplest, stupidest menial things. Like the colour yellow, apparently. 

Henry huffed to himself, bitterly. It was getting so, so ridiculous. 

The more upsetting truth, however, unraveled itself in his mind like a coarse thread, tangling all his thoughts—and bringing about even more bells, even more howling calls to repent, and even more visions of Hell.

Henry had never thought about Hell as many times as he did in the past week or so; amusingly enough, he wasn’t plagued by those fears and by all that guilt back in Rattay, nor in Sasau. He shifted in his saddle, urging Pebbles to go slower; he needed a moment to think, and he did not want to be caught off guard by galloping straight into the middle of some ambush or, worse, absent-mindedly trampling over a beggar asking for alms on the road.

Back in Rattay, once whatever anger and resentment he felt towards him passed—once he weaseled his way into Henry’s good graces with his jokes and sweet words and praise always carefully dispensed as to seem nearly accidental—Henry was simply happy to be next to him. Happy to ride out, happy to hunt, happy to just stand next to his lord and soak in the sun-like glow: infuriating and cocky and splendid. Happy to help his lord skin hares, empty wine barrels, woo wenches. All because it was…

Henry sighed. Getting all tangled up in his mind like that wasn’t the best idea—still, the baths by the Zhelejov Wagoners’ Inn were quite far away, and pushing these thoughts down to pretend they didn’t exist did not seem like the more sensible solution either. 

All because it was just so simple, back then. It felt good—but it also carried no graver consequence. Henry could allow himself to steal small touches—bumping shoulders in passing, hand brushing against hand while being passed the reins of his horse, pressure of their knees against each other carelessly when they sat next to each other by the fire, fletching arrows—and it would be just a small act of selfishness.

There was no hellfire at his feet—because there was no question of anything more ever being offered, nor asked for, nor begged for, nor given. Back then, the threat of sin did not loom over him, simply because it was inconceivable and out of the question: the thought did not even cross Henry’s mind. 

Or, rather: many thoughts crossed his mind, and most of them were brazen and indecent and capable of setting fire to his mind and soul and loins alike—but none were ever considered to be forged further, shaped into something sharp and real. And what is a thought, even a selfish one, even an obscene one, without any plan to act on it? A small sin, perhaps, one not worthy of the confessional.

Not that Henry would ever confess to it, small or not. 

A squirrel bolted across the road: Pebbles, entirely indifferent, did not even flinch; if it was up to her, she would have trampled the creature and not paid any attention to the ginger gore on her hooves. Mutt, however, barked wildly and ran after it into the bushes. 

He’ll be back in no time, Henry thought to himself, and returned to untangling his mind. When did it change? 

Back in the Sasau monastery, when he confronted Lucas, he wasn’t… He wasn’t furious. He didn’t feel any guilt or shame or utter confusion; it was a bit off-putting and uneasy, but that was it. He even said it: I found it interesting but I’m not judging you, you are the way you are.

And yet, when the Circators, drunk in that nasty dark cellar, repeated the rumour about Lucas’ past and preferences to him, he did say, without stuttering or hesitating: Thank you for the warning. And the next morning, during mass, he did look at Lucas a bit differently; he pitied the man. Or, was it even pity? What was it? 

Henry shook his head. All that thinking was giving him a headache. It was even worse with all that sun and birdsong around; he wished for once the world would pay him the kindness of sending a raging storm as he himself raged. 

He shifted in the saddle again, dull pain twisting the muscle of his shoulder and his side; the more he tried to take weight off that busted shoulder, the more he put on the other side of his spine. Old injuries sang beneath his marked skin, waking up again: the tip of the Cuman sabre finding purchase against the lowest of his ribs, the wound that came after refusing to heal for weeks. The blunt thud of a mace against his shoulder blade as a tower of a bandit lunged at him, only the chime of his spurs , traitorous, saving Henry's life. The rock beneath his back, jutting and rugged, as Pebbles bucked him off, frightened by the blazing torches of the villagers trying to rob him in the night. Those, and countless others, dormant, only pretending to be healed—threatening to return to haunt him at any point, if he wasn't careful.

And that Cuman and his sabre, that mace-waving brute, and those frantic, starving villagers—all gone. The scars and fractures remain, but the men who caused them have rotted into soft mud weeks and weeks ago, cut and crushed and gored by Henry's blade, or his hands, or that jutting, rugged rock.

Each of these Henry weighed against his heart, and even though they were unbearably heavy—they did not turn into the heat of hellfire. Every time he stole and lied and killed, even if it weighed him down in the quiet, lonesome minutes, it did not haunt him the way all this haunted him.

He believed in God—and he believed God did not care about petty sin. God did not care about whose pockets he picked or whose head he split or whose thighs he marked with the heavy splatter of his seed. Henry wasn't sure what God cared about instead. Perhaps death alone mattered to God, and nothing else.

Henry recalled the monastery, and the village masses before, and all the prayers he's ever said—and he realised, his heart choked, that he never really worried about sin. As a boy or as a man, even though he would oft mutter a prayer over the broken bodies of those who dared transgress him, he was not bothered or worried by sin.

So what, in God's name, was his despair about? Why the rage swirling with guilt like wine mixed with blood? Why the bells? 

He’s heard of sodomy before, for God’s sake; Skalitz might have not been any grand town like Prague, but it wasn’t the end of the world, and he’s heard about it both from the self-righteous height of the parish pulpit as well as from his friends, making crass jokes over a tankard of wine lifted sneakily from their parents. It did not rock him to his core, did not banish all sleep—it was just another sin a man could commit, from a nearly endless list that was quite hard to memorise; maybe a bit funny or nasty, but not… 

The bells rang out somewhere in his mind, an echo of repent, repent, repent.

Well, not this, Henry thought. 

This was getting ridiculous. 

If he had never cared for sin, why did this one feel like God's teeth at the back of his neck, bending him into repentance?

Perhaps it was easier to be indifferent when it was another man’s sin. Perhaps it was easier to accept when it was just a thread of lingering, selfish thoughts, ones he’d never think to act upon.

Or, perhaps—and Henry swallowed hard, his spit tasting like soil—it was easier back when he was able to accept his place in the world. Back when it was easier to accept his place as compared to his lord. 

Because, at the end of the day, no matter how he raged against it now, the truth of the matter was very simple: Lord Capon was his better, and a nobleman, and the future lord of the domain. Lord Capon was his lord. Even if it felt unfair, that was the natural order set by the hand of God himself. Any lingering touch or praise or smile were just a lucky happenstance; a small, nice thing to appreciate for someone of Henry’s social standing. 

Perhaps it all went to shit once Henry got this unforgivable, ridiculous idea in his head: that maybe they were not so different, Lord Capon and him. That maybe they were equal—Hell, that maybe it was the two of them against the world. Maybe that was the reason why it all started to feel like a transgression deserving of God’s utmost wrath, the pillory or the noose, and then burying him under the cemetery’s wall facing west or something, for good measure. 

Perhaps it was not the sin itself that corrupted him—but the unachievable object of his desire, once he foolishly dared to approach that uncrossable line of state and birthright and order of nature. 

A dog ought to be put back in his place, after all, and be happier for it. Unruly dogs, too mad for kennels, ought to be put down.

It was not the dog's hunger that doomed him, Henry realised as he felt some weight lift off his tired shoulders. It was just that he hungered after the wrong thing. Something the dog did not deserve, and he knew it, and God knew it, too.

Alas, the wringing pain in his gut eased, and the bells ceased to ring.

Given the object of his desire was now decidedly gone— physically, having abandoned him without a second thought, and from his heart, having abandoned him without a second thought—it seemed the sin itself should be easy enough to tame.

Stop barking and tugging at your leash in the mad hours of night, dog, and you will be spared. And so, Henry would stop.

Before Henry realised, he was approaching the Wagoners’ Inn; one of the bathhouse wenches was already waving happily at Mutt, and the proprietor Dorothy was eyeing him cautiously from her bench. 

Henry did not expect that finding a companion for their wedding plan would be that difficult, especially with how much Kreyzl was offering to pay; the girls, God bless their hearts, seemed absolutely spooked, finding excuses and begging Dorothy not to send them. All because of Ulrich and his mysterious tastes, so awful that it made some of them physically sick, apparently.

An unpleasant wave of warmth ran down his spine.

“Is he.. Is he that bad? What’s so terrible about him?” Henry asked, trying to keep his voice relatively unaffected. 

“Weren’t you listening?! What he demands is just… Heathen, it is!”

“It’s worse than if he had leprosy!”

“He’s not a, uh,” Henry felt his throat tighten unpleasantly. Best get it out, he thought, and swallowed hard. “He’s not a sodomite, is he?”

He could swear the time stopped at that moment: birds and chatter ceased, the rays of sun became immobile, and the faces of the girls before him, as if cast in stone, remained stuck in their disgusted expressions. He felt his heartbeat in his temples and cold sweat somewhere on his back, rippling through him in unpleasant surges. 

And then, as if through a touch of a magic wand, everything returned to motion.

“Pfft, if only!” one of the girls exclaimed, waving her hand dismissively. There was no hint of horror in her voice; if anything, it seemed that scenario would be a much preferred relief. 

“That would be a doddle,” the other added.

“I’d go with him twice if that’s all it was,” the third one said, smiling, and shrugged. 

Some great weight was lifted off Henry’s shoulders, and all of sudden the faces of each of the bathhouse wenches seemed kissable and pretty and sweet like some icon of a saint in the church. Even old Dorothy. 

“You’re better off not knowing, believe me…” the proprietor said. “So no girl of mine will go. But, one of them Nomad girls… You should try there.”

Henry thanked them — without telling them what he’s thanking them all so eagerly for, really, — and set out for the Nomad camp. 

There was no doubt that Enneleyn was pretty. Beautiful, even, somehow more so through how confident and snobbish she was about it, and the contrast of her elevated manner of speaking compared to the fact she was standing next to a pile of horse manure added some sort of baffling charm that Henry found himself enjoying immensely. She was rude, admittedly, but perhaps partially because he himself started the conversation off rather awkwardly. 

Henry looked at her: the patched up dress was still flattering, her curves just the perfect balance between prominent and elegant. There was something in her eyes that set off his imagination, especially as she bragged about being the courtesan at many noble courts. For a moment, Henry felt baffled that Enneleyn was actually the first woman in quite some time he looked at more closely, and found himself pleasantly surprised at the fact that he was attracted to her — even if she was rude. 

“Bathhouse wenches you say? And they did not agree, even with such high a price?” She played with a strand of her hair absent-mindedly. 

“They said they didn’t want anything to do with him because of his.. Special tastes. Some wanted to uh, vomit, after meeting him. Others said they started considering the convent.”

“Poor girls…” Enneleyn’s voice had a hint of sympathy in it, “here, in the arse end of the world, girls are no doubt used to just lying on their backs and staring up at the ceiling.”

“Hm, it seems it’s not about what chamberlain Schaumberg did to them, but what he wanted them to do to him,” he said, his thoughts for a brief second escaping in the direction of the button atop her dress, right above her breasts. He could nearly feel it beneath his skilled fingers, in his mind, as it comes undone, the material parting.... He quickly focused back on the actual task at hand. 

“Hm…” Enneleyn hummed to herself, her voice pleasantly low, “I knew a Schaumberg from Nuremberg, and he was a hermaphrodyte… He had both… Things.”

A what, Henry thought, any thoughts of the buttons and dress and Enneleyn’s curved hips escaping his mind abruptly. He felt blood rush to his face; it was the first time he heard about such a condition, and it made his mind race — still, he did not want to seem pitifully uneducated in her eyes, and thus he stopped himself from asking further questions on that particular matter, no matter how hard it was. 

“But I don’t want to make fun of the girls. Not everyone wants to try new tricks, if you know what I mean?” Her voice was kinder, suddenly, even if for a moment. “I must say, I’m quite curious about the chamberlain now. I’m not easily frightened.”

Henry smiled.

“There’s one more thing though… I don’t think anyone will believe I’m a lady in these old rags.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Henry replied, waving his hand, “I bought a fine dress for you, and brewed some perfume, too.”

“You brewed it?”

“Mmh, well, yes,” Henry felt a bit embarrassed, suddenly. Enneleyn tutted, a slight note of being impressed in her voice. 

“Tyrolean brocade… And the perfume.. Hm. I must say, this is faring quite alright so far. And you, you will be going as well?”

“Yes, and before you say anything, I will change into some more fitting clothing, too,” Henry said, smiling, as he felt her gaze drop immediately to his blood-stained cuirass. 

“Mhm, go and change now, if you can, I need to make sure you look as gallantly as you should, if you are to be my escort.”

“Right away, my lady,” he replied and bowed, feeling a pleasant wave of satisfaction run through him as he raised his eyes and noticed Enneleyn was smiling as well, and with a hint of a surprised blush on her cheeks. 

Perhaps, he thought to himself, that wedding won’t be a complete chore…

He walked into Tibor’s tent with his pack, ready to change into the garments he bought at the tailor’s. The tent was empty but he knew the man wasn’t far away: he could hear his voice somewhere further north into the camp, joking and laughing loudly. Probably wrestling or betting something, again. 

He was just about to allow his mind to consider whether he found Tibor attractive when one of the pieces of clothing, silky and smooth, slipped out of his hand and fell on the ground. He picked it up, quickly so as not to let it get dirty, and his fingers brushed against the pleasant fabric, with its countless loops and swirls of fine embroidery. 

Henry had never worn anything this fancy, really. He had some finer coats and waffenrocks, but-

That’s not true, he heard his own voice in the back of his mind, slightly malicious. Back in Rattay, don’t pretend you don’t remember.

Henry swallowed, feeling uneasiness creep over him again; he tried his best not to think about it as he stripped and changed, but with every piece of fine clothing he put on, it became harder and harder to ignore the memory.

It was the day after their nightly escapade — when he asked for Henry’s help to woo the butcher’s daughter, Karolina, and when he got all that he wanted that night purely thanks to Henry’s help — and Sir Hanush demanded the presence of them both urgently. He chewed their asses out well and proper for that whole affair. 

Still, that wasn’t the part of the memory that caused Henry’s throat to tighten unpleasantly again: it was what came just a short moment before, right before that audience.

I’m glad you’re here, Henry, he said, turning towards him, away from the window in his Rattay room he was staring out of. Uncle… Sir Hanush sent for me. No doubt he wants to give me another ear-bashing about the error of my ways… And he said to bring you, too.

Henry recalled how bad it felt to see him worried. How everything in him jumped at the ready to do anything he asked of him. 

Right away… he said, eyeing Henry from head to toe. I put some of my old clothes in a trunk for you. I don’t want you making me look bad in front of Hanush. So go and get dressed up before we go. 

There was this glint in his eyes back then that Henry fought with all his strength to ignore. He nodded and complied, following his lord’s order immediately—with the lord in question still standing in the room, entirely nonchalantly returning back to looking out of the window.

As Henry stripped and changed, he made sure not to look back at his lord even for the briefest second. 

And those clothes felt just as fine as what he was picking up from the tent’s floor now, if not finer—worn but not worn out, clean, smooth and rich. And, most damningly, undoubtedly smelling of Hans.

The whole audience with Sir Hanush Henry could not focus well on a single word; Hanush could have as well been calling his mother a pig and he wouldn't have known. All that occupied his mind was how the fabric of Hans’ clothes felt against his skin, how it stretched across his back and shoulders, how it gripped his thighs, his physique already on its way to be broader and more muscular than he’s ever been back in Skalitz. It was so soft, and it smelled… Well.

Now, there was no way Hans’ clothes would fit him at all.

Why would you even think about that, he berated himself in his mind, harshly, and rushed to put the rest of the clothes on to leave to see Enneleyn before any other foolish memories spring back to his mind. 

“My, my, don’t you look the part, sir knight?” she said with a sly smile on her pretty lips once he appeared before her. “The whole of Semine will talk about us, I dare say.”

“They will be overwhelmed by your beauty, my lady, of that I can assure you,” Henry said, feeling strangely satisfied at how easy it was for him to play along. Say the right words in just the right tone. Enneleyn raised her head and shot him a look that had something mischievous in it; then, her expression fell back into the cold and confident countenance. 

“Now, I need to bathe and dress myself… Come for me in the morning, and we will go to the wedding together. We should meet that miller of yours at the gates, no?”

“Yes, exactly,” Henry said, nodded politely as a form of goodbye, and whistled to call Pebbles to him. 

“And! Do not do THAT! Anywhere close to Semine!” Enneleyn berated him suddenly, voice raised and high. “Whistling like a common yokel!”

Henry snorted at how explosive her reaction was; luckily, he managed to hide it well enough.

“Of course, lady Enneleyn.”

He got on his horse and left for what he already decided would be the last night spent at Kreyzl’s mill. 

He chose a slightly different route this time: he didn’t know when would be the next time he’d visit this very region and so he wanted to see at least some of it before the wedding.

The sun wasn’t setting yet — but it cast a warm, golden glow on everything around him, and Henry felt very strongly that he had to cherish it. He wasn’t sure why; still, his hunches rarely let him down, and so he focused on soaking up as much of that warmth and beauty as he could, paying attention to each bird call and each tree and each scent that hit his nostrils from the abundance of nature before him. 

And as Pebbles trotted, rhythm of her hooves against the road steady and slow, the wind brought the smell of meadows: damp soil, sun-heated grasses, hyssop and wild angelica. Henry felt his breath catch somewhere in his lungs.

And meadowsweet. 

In all that rush to get ready for the wedding, it painfully escaped Henry’s attention that chances were he would be there as well. He was supposed to be there, after all. But perhaps he has already gotten himself jailed, or killed, or worse; perhaps he changed his mind and decided to pursue a different solution. Who knew.

Henry certainly didn’t know and he certainly didn’t care. There was no reason to care, after all: a dog ought to be put in his place, and be content. He would serve his lord like an obedient hound should—but nothing more. He no longer cared. 

And, focusing very hard on just how much he no longer cared, Henry pressed the reins into the side of Pebble’s neck, urging her to cross from the road into the green depth of the meadow.

Then, cursing his name, he knelt in the grass—not blessed yet by evening dew but still warm from the sun—and picked the delicate flower, breaking it off its stem with a focus so deep it bordered, dangerously, on devotion.

He hid it in the pocket of his coat, hoping God didn't see it.

The mill was already swallowed by the deep orange of the setting sun by the time Henry rode slowly into the stable. He looked through the contents of his saddlebags, making sure there was room enough for the rest of his things: he had already decided that, no matter what happens during the wedding, he’d find a different place to stay. Away from this lake and its damp meadows. Away from things that haunt him mercilessly and to no end. Away from-

“So, how did it go?” he heard a voice with a sneering note in it somewhere from outside the stable. Hensel was leaning against the wooden post, arms crossed.

“Why do you care?” Henry asked abruptly. “Also, how do you even know what I was doing?”

“People talk,” the boy shrugged, eyebrow raised. “And people really like talking about you, specifically, Henry.”

“Did Kreyzl tell you?”

“Why do you care?” 

Henry shook his head and turned in the direction of the door to the house; there was no use getting riled up again. He tried, as hard as he could, to ignore the rush that surged through him in unsteady billows the moment he heard Hensel’s voice; he tried even harder to ignore the dark, deep bruise blooming over the boy’s collarbone, stark against his pale skin. His handiwork. 

“How much is the miller paying her, by the way?” Hensel shouted behind him, making Henry turn around. 

“Enough to buy two cows,” Henry spat, “more money than you’ll ever see for hauling shit for him, that’s for sure.”

“Tsk, tsk,” the boy grinned, shaking his head in mocking disapproval. Henry felt blood rush to his head again. “No need to be cruel, Henry.”

Oh but I do. I do need to be cruel, Henry thought. 

“I’m just being honest,” he said, instead, forcing himself to shrug. 

“And did he pay for your clothes, too? You’re all dressed up, eh? Who for?”

Henry decided not to answer; instead, he turned his back to him again and started moving towards the door, leaving Hensel behind, leaning against the stable. He just wanted to sleep.

“I thought only the wench was there to whore herself out for some lord,” Hensel’s voice sounded out across the yard, “but I guess you plan to end up on your back tomorrow as well, huh, Henry?”

The next dozen heartbeats were a blur of motion and anger, as Henry turned around again and closed the distance between them insanely fast—in a second he was right in front of Hensel, and then against him, shoving him back into the darkness of the stable and against the wooden wall.

The stable shook with the impact, stray straw falling out on their heads from above, as Hensel’s back hit hard against the wood; Henry grabbed the front of his shirt with his fist, the other hand flat against the wall right next to Hensel’s head. Then, he moved his arm, now using it to press against the boy’s airways.

“What did you say?” he hissed through gritted teeth, a millimeter away from his face. The boy grinned, then winced as Henry’s arm dug into the bruise above his collarbone. 

“Oh, you heard me,” he wheezed, his smug expression dialled up—hoping to infuriate Henry even further. 

Henry pressed his forearm harder against his throat, and used the force of his whole body to smother Hensel into further submission, nearly crushing him against the wall. He felt overcome with something bordering on rage, yes, but not rage exactly; the noise of blood rushing to his head drowned out any possible bells. 

“Well, don’t stop now,” Hensel hissed, barely enough air in his lungs to speak at all. 

Henry pressed harder. Everything smelled like hay and iron, like summer and blood on his tongue. Hensel’s body tensed against his and his eyes only betrayed further challenge; cocky and infuriating.

It was then that Henry realised, body flush against body, why Hensel was provoking him so eagerly—and why, the last time they fought and he had the boy pinned to the ground, he ran away so fast the second he released him.

Against the firm muscles of Henry’s broad thigh, Hensel was obscenely and undoubtedly hard. 

Henry pushed himself off, abruptly releasing Hensel and letting go of his shirt; the sudden lack of footing made the hired hand nearly fall to the ground. He quickly collected himself, pitifully trying to adjust his shirt—to no avail, as it was ripped open at the top now, and hanging from his body exposing the bruise Henry left days before even more. 

Before the hired hand could say anything more, Henry turned around and nearly ran to the house, disappearing in the blink of an eye into the loft. 

It was a restless sort of sleep: dreamless, uncomfortable, and easily interrupted. The first time Henry abruptly woke up, confused, he thought he was back at the Rattay mill: the grinding of stone against grain and Theresa’s steps somewhere outside. But it was still dark, he was somewhere else, and he was alone.

The second time Henry woke up, sweaty and uneasy, he thought he was back at the monastery; he could nearly swear he smelled the incense and the herbs, and the murky stone of the cellar the Circators locked him in for a day when they caught him abandoning his duties. He could hear their mocking voices somewhere deep within his mind. But he was in the loft, still, laying in hay, and he was alone.

The third time Henry woke up, slowly opening his eyes and feeling his heart in his throat, he was very aware he was no longer alone. It was just before the break of dawn, and it was a creak of the wooden ladder that woke him; nearly impossible to be heard by anyone yet loud as thunder to his sharpened instincts.

In any other place, his immediate reaction would be to reach for his weapon, never farther than an arm’s reach away—but there, at that moment, he knew he didn’t need it. Just as he knew it back at the lake. 

He sat up, slowly, and then stood up.It would have been the time to rise if he wanted to make sure he had enough time to get ready and go get Enneleyn anyway, and so he moved towards his chest to pull out his clothing without dispensing as much as a short look towards the boy standing two paces away from him.

He put the fine shirt on, pulling it over his head, and then slipped into the gartered hose, strangely thin compared to the padded chausses he was used to wearing; then, he put on the shoes, impractical and shiny, and collected the coat and the rest of his things. Only then, he looked up. 

“The wedding is today?” Hensel asked, as if he didn’t know. There was something different in his voice: something vulnerable. It made that ugly thing in the pit of Henry's stomach both recoil and rejoice.

“Mhm,” Henry replied, somewhere low from his throat, still raspy from sleep. He threw the coat around his shoulders. It felt pleasantly heavy. 

“And you won’t return here, will you?” the boy asked—as if he didn’t know. 

Henry looked at him, his pale face barely visible in the pre-dawn darkness of the loft. There was something softer in his features. Something sadder. 

He chose not to reply, instead looking over the dark space to make sure he gathered all of his things; it seemed he had.

"The things I said yesterday…” Hensel started, his voice faltering for a split second, before regaining his composure and the smug, snickering tone. “Well, I don’t think I have to apologise, given you nearly beat the shit out of me for it. Again.”

Henry looked at him, eyebrows slightly raised but the rest of his face indifferent. 

“Buuut,” Hensel drew out the syllable, crossing his arms. “I thought I should teach you one more thing, before you go.”

“I don’t think you’ve taught me anything so far,” Henry snapped back. 

That’s a vile lie, and you know that, his own voice rang out in his head, mocking him. 

“Well,” Hensel sighed, eyebrows furrowed. “Then let me teach you that one thing, then. So at least you don’t think your time here was wasted on the miller’s crazy shit and carrying sacks or corpses or what have you. Let me show you something useful, for once. Treat it as a parting gift.”

Hensel’s hand travelled, absentmindedly, to the bruise above his collarbone, thumb pressing in slightly. Henry's eyes travelled to it reflexively, too, right away, snapping to the motion like a goshawk spotting a dormouse in the field. A longer moment of silence hung in the air as they stood, two paces from each other, the air thick with tension like right before a storm.

“And what would that be?” Henry’s voice was still raspy, but it was no longer caused by sleep. 

“You’ll see,” the boy grinned mischievously even though it did not reach his eyes. Then, he turned around to get down the ladder. “I’ve got a feeling it’ll come in handy for you sometime soon.” 

In the pre-dawn quiet, interrupted only by the waking birds, Hensel led him downstairs, and further towards the shed—again. The straw lying on the floor muffled their steps. 

Henry could lie to himself, assuring himself he was entirely oblivious—but he recognised the way his heart beat wildly in his chest, thudding loud enough to make him slightly dizzy. He felt the same way when Bianca led him by the hand, for the first time, laughing, into the small forest clearing behind the silver mines, under the pretense of having him help her gather herbs. He felt the same way, again, when he climbed the steep wooden stairs at Talmberg, on his way to Lady Stephanie's room. He felt the same when he followed Theresa into the barn, lighting cutting through the stormy skies above Rattay. He could pretend to be oblivious—but he wasn’t. Nor was his body: as he took the final steps, stepping into the shed, he was caught off guard by the fact he was already half-hard. 

Hensel pushed him lightly further inside, into the complete darkness of the shed, and against the wooden wall; Henry was glad to have something to support himself against, letting his back touch the wood. He looked at the boy in front of him, his shirt still hanging open; the bruise as stark as the day he caused it. 

“But you need to be quiet,” Hensel whispered. “You will go away tomorrow but I need to stay here over winter at least. And they won’t have me if they find out.”

Henry nodded, trying his best to regulate his breathing. 

That mischievous glint in Hensel’s eyes was back as he slowly knelt in front of him, carefully positioning his knees so they rested on the straw and not the hard ground; he looked up, straight into Henry’s eyes. He grinned, and Henry felt a shiver run up his spine. 

Hensel reached out, his hands resting flat against Henry’s thighs; his muscles tensed and he swallowed hard, surprised at the impact such a simple sensation had on his body. Hensel’s left hand slowly snaked slightly upwards and to the middle: first, just his fingers brushed against Henry’s half-hard cock, causing him to inhale sharply. Then, he used his whole palm to cup it, then press against it, and dragged it ever so slightly upwards across Henry’s length. 

Henry felt a familiar yet long-forgotten sensation of warmth pooling within his gut, heavy, as he felt himself strain nearly painfully against the hose and flat palm of the boy kneeling in front of him. Something brewed, deep within him, and he wasn't sure whether it was just expectation, or lust—or disgust, coiled and writhing and hot.

He had thought about his cock in someone's mouth many times before, from youthful fantasies after too many crass jokes painted that picture in his head, tempting, through shy and awkward attempts at voicing his need while fooling around with Bianka. Hell, he even had that one girl at the baths, freckled and enamoured with him, offer to do it for him entirely free of charge and without being asked, as she poured warm water over his stomach. But it had never happened, even with that girl—he was in such a rush that day and his head was elsewhere, and-

He knew where his head was that day, and who he was rushing to meet so desperately, and it was exactly the same as where his thoughts were headed now—and Henry heard the bells again.

It had nothing to do with the fact that Hensel’s fingers were now reaching to pull his length out of the hose, hot and hard and impatient. The sin was different, just as he thought before: unruly dogs ought to be put down, if they hunger after the wrong thing. God sees you as you dare turn your wretched eyes to something too holy for you.

He reached down, interrupting Hensel’s focus; the boy looked up at him, slightly taken back, and then his eyebrows raised in surprise as Henry cupped his face, harsher than he intended.

Henry then, towering over him, quiet and stubborn, dragged his thumb across the other’s mouth, forcing it to part. Hensel's eyebrows furrowed but the speed with which he opened his mouth, hungrily, betrayed his eagerness; the soft hotness of his tongue felt intoxicating against the rough, scarred skin of Henry's thumb.

Henry pushed his finger in, saliva pooling warmly around it, and pulled out—only to push it back in, dragging slightly against Hensel's bottom teeth. He wanted to focus on Hensel, even if for a second: on his eyes of a different colour than those cursed eyes that haunted him, and his differently shaped nose, and his rude, simple mouth that never knew a single Latin hymn or sentence.

Hensel was stubbornly looking up at him, his pale face now red and flushed, eyebrows still furrowed in feigned opposition. Then, his mouth twisted slightly—and he sucked, biting down on Henry's thumb, mischief returning to his gaze as Henry's cock beneath his palm twitched in response.

Henry pulled back, thumb smearing saliva across Hensel's parted lips, and his hand travelled to the hem of his hose—instead of waiting for Hensel to pull his length out, he did so himself. That ugly thing brewing within him shivered in pleasure at the sight, and at the face Hensel made, and then even more so—as the boy took him in his mouth, nothing meek or shy about it, hungrily, halfway in and then up to hilt right away, burying his nose in the coarse swirl of Henry's dark hair.

Henry's head hit back against the wood, so hard he felt his teeth rattle. Hensel's tongue worked dutifully, pressing harder against the bottom, then swirling around the head, mouth closed tightly and hard against him.

Henry's hips bucked and his right hand travelled to grab Hensel's hair, entangled, right at the back of his head—the boy, thrown off rhythm, choked slightly on Henry's cock in response.

The low growl that escaped Henry's mouth echoed through the dark and quiet of the shed, his arse hitting back against the wood.

He knew he had to be quiet but he also knew it would be a hellish task: he hadn't been touched in such a long time, neither by the hand of another nor his own, and the hot wetness of Hensel's mouth was threatening to make him spill any second. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Henry's never been quiet in his pleasure, whether alone or with someone else, and he could feel his throat refuse to muffle any further sounds, the waves that overcame him threatening to cause low, raspy grunts against his better judgement. Suddenly, the air broke with the slick sound of his cock slipping out, making him open his eyes again.

“You need to be quiet,” Hensel hissed, chin glistening, as he stroked Henry's cock with his hand. “You fool, you'll get us both-”

His words were drowned out as Henry guided his cock back into his mouth, pushing hard, feeling it hit against the back of his throat. Hensel huffed against it, a mix of annoyance and self-satisfied laughter, as he returned to sucking, greedy and eager.

Impatient, Henry started thrusting in tandem with the rhythm set by the hired hand—who, as it immediately dawned at Henry, must have done it before, and possibly plenty of times. Somehow, that thought made the heat in the pit of his stomach burn even hotter.

He found his hips yielding into the rhythm half-voluntarily, half-instinctively, and tried to focus on what Hensel was doing exactly—to remember it, relive it in his imagination in case it never happens again. And it was a lesson, after all—something he said might come in handy. 

But which part, Henry thought, holding Hensel's head in place for a second longer, prolonging the inevitable: sucking a cock or getting mine sucked? What's the lesson?

If fates were kind, in the oily shade of the armoury or in the thickness of a forest, would it be Henry on his knees with the young lord's cock in his mouth, or would it be-

Henry gritted his teeth so hard he could hear the sound of it, a bolt of pain shooting through his jaw. His hips bucked, driving him deeper.

And as he felt closer to release, something tightening within him and unraveling at the same time, his mind was flooded, mercilessly, with thoughts he wanted to banish—his body, even though conquering in that moment, suddenly felt vulnerable, too.

God sees you, dog, as you hunger for something too holy for dirt like you.

Dawn broke over the mill slowly and quietly, faint light sneaking into the shed where the sin was happening through the cracks in wooden walls—the sounds muffled but honest to the core.

If Hensel was to look up in that particular moment, as he felt Henry strain against the roof of his bruised mouth, he would have seen him: eyes squeezed closed, head against the wall, throat bared and tensed you could nearly see his pulse—and a clenched fist he was biting on to stop himself from growling or shouting with the release that was about to come, rattling them both.

What he would not be able to see, however, was what Henry would never confess to: the greatest and most damning part of that sin. In that fist clenched harder than in battle, nails digging into the skin and drawing blood, Henry held close to his face—like a reliquary—the half-wilted flowers of meadowsweet.

And as he came, harder and hotter than either of them expected—biting down on his knuckles, white from strain—he prayed, to whoever would listen to a cursed wretch like him.

As Hensel pulled back, panting, and spat his seed out on the floor of the shed, covering it quickly with straw, Henry let his head hit hard back against the wooden wall.

The bells were gone: it was too late, the sin already etched into his mind relentlessly. All that Henry could hear, still inhaling the holy herb so sweet it bordered on bitter, was the mad barking of hounds.

If he is an unruly dog, hungering after something he has no right to, then he is already damned. God can't help him.

His soul is already lost—the leash to it in different hands than God's.

Chapter Text

Henry did not turn back to look at the mill one last time. For the first time since he could remember, truly: usually, every time he knew he was leaving a place and would most likely not return, he’d say a proper goodbye. It would feel silly, sometimes, saying goodbye to a place—but he was past the point of caring about what others might judge him for. He was quick to love places just as he was quick to love people, and even though he knew he was too restless to ever stay in any one place too long, he still allowed himself to grow close to it and miss it once he left. Like the monastery, before he snuck out for the final time: when he allowed himself to go upstairs one last time and touch the tome he worked on for the past however many days, feeling strange pride at the sight of letters so graceful no one would ever tell it was the hand of a blacksmith’s son that brought them into this world.  

The mill, he did not look back at. 

Henry rode slowly towards the Nomad camp, doing his best not to get any mud or dirt on his clothes and not to tire Pebbles out too much: he knew her saddlebags were filled nearly to the brim and the weight of them would make it hard to gallop. He packed all of his things, after all—even though he had no clue what awaited him after the wedding and where he would end up going. 

Ideally: he would be going back to Rattay. Von Bergow would appear at the wedding, he would manage to get at least a moment of his time, explain everything, convey Hanush’s message as best he could, and then… Then that would be the end of their— his — task, and he would go back to Rattay, back to Radzig, and then the rest of his future would most likely be out of his hands anyway. Going back to Rattay should feel like a joyous prospect. Perhaps it would, if he wasn’t going back there alone. What will Radzig say? What will Hanush- What will they all say when Henry returns without his lord at his side? When they ask him where Capon is, what on earth could he himself even say? They entrusted him not just the message to Von Bergow—first and foremost they entrusted him to protect Capon. Like many times before, and he had never let them down—never let him down.

No matter how rotten it felt and no matter how painful, the truth was that there was no scenario in which he could return to Rattay without his lord. Even if this wedding would be the end of the task they embarked upon, Henry’s next step would not be returning to Rattay—it would be to track down his lord, even if he himself did not want to be found, and bring him home. Even if he kicked and screamed and threatened him with pillory or the noose. Even if he would banish him entirely after. 

Even if he cursed his name forever.

A well-trained dog remains loyal to his master even as he bleeds under the whip. 

He did not want to think about it. He did not want to think about him , and he did not want to think about going back to Rattay at all. 

Passing a shallow bend of the lake, Henry noticed a shimmer of azure feathers reflecting the rays of the waking sun; right after, he heard the short and sharp warning call. It was a kingfisher, in the wild blaze of its plumage, guarding his territory from the depth of the reeds; as Henry looked slowly and carefully around, he spotted another one, a couple of paces to the left. The warning call was meant for that other male, bold and curious, clearly encroaching on the first one’s territory. The harsh whistle repeated—but to no avail, as the other bird kept moving, unperturbed. Henry stopped Pebbles for a second, just to watch.

He had seen wolves lunge at each other’s throats, tearing them out, and he had seen furious rams butt heads until both were left bloody and shaken, and he had seen deer clash with the royal crowns of their antlers until they became impossibly entangled and both animals perished. And yet, even though much less bloody and much more quiet, there was something about how kingfishers fought that was chilling and unlike anything else.

At first, the residing bird started a display, hoping to shoo the other away: puffing up its feathers and moving its wings, and whistling out the warning call. The other one was still unmoved, still bold, getting closer to the edge of water he knew the other one was guarding. And that was when it happened: it swooped down, in a shimmer of blues and greens, aimed perfectly; the kingfisher grabbed its rival ruthlessly by the beak and drove his little spotted head under the water. And he held it down, and held, and held, and the other bird thrashed hopelessly against it but did not have strength enough to free himself—soon he got flipped mercilessly onto his back, his head still underwater. Then, the thrashing stopped. Henry held his breath. Then, a sound of a branch being stepped on somewhere in the forest rang out loud as a bell, and suddenly both birds were gone in a flutter of feathers and water droplets. 

Henry felt relieved, somehow: he did not want to start the day with seeing such a beautiful bird drowned, even if such was the way God created nature. 

That is not how your day started anyway, his own voice mocked him somewhere deep in his mind. You still feel the stir, do you not? Threatening to make you hard if you as much as think about it again, the back of his throat-

Henry squeezed Pebbles’ sides harder and rushed her towards the Nomad camp. 

He thought he would have felt miserable. He thought he would have felt like shit—torn apart by guilt and shame, regretting what happened, fighting desperately to drown out that memory and that part of himself. He should feel like shit, the sin of it a stark mark on his conscience. 

But he didn’t. Not at all. He felt good.

The degree of his own satisfaction shocked him. He felt lighter, as if a great weight was lifted off him, and the only reason he tried not to think about the events that passed at dawn was because he knew it would distract him. The damning sound of bells was gone—and while it was replaced by the barking of hounds, Henry quickly understood he actually found that sound comforting. 

There was no point in lying to himself—there was no point in pretending he wasn’t a dog. Both he and God himself knew that he was. 

He understood, as if suddenly blessed by some divine knowledge, why he felt so conflicted recalling Lucas and the monastery—Hell, even Toth himself. It was the fear. The hiding. 

The earth did not part and Hell did not swallow him just because he gave in to his desires. God didn't care about petty sin, and no matter how loud the priests were shouting from the pulpits about the shame of it all, it felt good. It felt just as simple and natural and obvious as wooing a girl. 

He really hoped Lucas would one day understand. Find his peace in the monastery or outside of it, no shame haunting his dreams. 

Before Henry realised, he was already at the Nomad camp; Enneleyn spotted him from afar, waving and then disappearing into her tent to get ready. He got down from the saddle, letting Pebbles rest a while, and leaned against the tree next to her.

“Henry!” he heard Tibor’s bright, booming voice. “My friend! You are here to spar again, yes?”

“Not this time, no,” Henry replied, shaking his head. “Look at what I’m wearing, I would look like a total fool sparring, eh? All I’m missing are the tiny bells that jesters wear.”

Tibor laughed, and his laughter was loud and unrestrained and utterly contagious. 

“Aye, Henry, you are all dressed up,” the man came closer, laughter still in the corner of his eyes. “But I can see that congratulations are in order!”

“Huh?”

“Look at how you glow, my friend!” Tibor laughed again and gave him a pat on the back so strong it nearly knocked the wind out of his lungs. “The glow of a man who got lucky the night before, no?”

There was a brief second during which Henry felt horrified—but it passed as quickly as it appeared, giving way to smug satisfaction. 

“Well, my friend,” he replied, grinning, “a gentleman never tells.”

Tibor laughed again.

“Good for you, Henry, good for you! Now, you return and come see me, yes? And we spar!”

“I will, I will,” Henry said, withstanding another powerful pat on the back. Before he could say anything more, he spotted Enneleyn leave her tent and gesture at him to come closer. She looked beautiful in that red brocade dress, and he could smell the mintha perfume radiating off her skin from afar. 

“My my, sir knight,” she said, eyeing him from head to toe. “Seems we are both ready to go and be the talk of the domain, no?”

Henry bowed as low as if she truly was a noble lady, and felt another wave of smug satisfaction when he noticed the way she smiled because of it. He also heard Tibor, somewhere deeper into the camp, whistle and then laugh loudly again, and tried very hard not to laugh as well. 

“Let us go, my lady, and dazzle the whole of Semine,” he smiled and extended his hand in Enneleyn’s direction.

It was high time to ride out if they wanted to be only fashionably late to the wedding, instead of actually missing it. 

“If you wore gloves,” the woman said as they rode towards Semine, “you could fool anyone into thinking you’re a nobleman, do you know?”

“Hm?”

“You can dress well and you know how to speak like one,” she explained, “you can even emulate the air of superiority they exude. And you have a surprising amount of knowledge on such a wide variety of subjects it even gives me pause.” Enneleyn fixed her hair. “Most of the time I half expect you to burst into verse or start speaking Latin.”

“Well, I do know some Latin,” he replied, trying to focus on the road and not give in to the very overwhelming mix of emotions currently rippling through his insides. 

“It is what makes me trust you,” she added, suddenly, “because I can see how alike we are. This is a skill, Henry, one that you have to be born with but hone it through the years as well. And it doesn’t come cheap.”

Henry shrugged, unsure what to say. It started off as a compliment—or he hoped so, at least—but quickly turned into something deeper that he was not ready for. He shifted slightly in the saddle. 

“It is thankless and difficult, observing all of this so diligently that you can absorb it,” she continued, undeterred by his silence. “ Watching them so closely you learn how to talk like them, how to hold cutlery like them, how to bark orders with disdain at servants and alehouse wenches the same way they do. We are mirrors, you and I. We reflect who they are back at them.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Henry said, his voice coming out less lively than he hoped it would. It wasn’t entirely honest, either. 

“Oh, but you do,” she waved her hand, “And in my case, as a courtesan, they revel in that reflection. They love it. It makes them feel more powerful than they are, and younger, and more handsome, and it tickles their overblown pride in the sweetest way. But that’s because I’m a courtesan, for one. And there’s another reason, too, you know?”

“What would that be?”

“I took that mask and sewed it to my face, Henry. It no longer comes off. It does not threaten them with any risk of reflecting something they won’t like.”

“It sounds-”

“And you,” she interrupted him, “you slip out of it easily and eagerly, returning to being yourself. Unburdened by their folly. Unaffected by all those nasty, ugly things they hide within themselves and all those nasty, ugly things they wear on their sleeves. You slip out of it and you look them in the eye. And they hate you for it.”

“We met yesterday, Enneleyn, didn’t we?” he asked, feeling uneasy. “And you speak as if you know me.”

“We did, yes, and I do. We are so similar I do not need to know any details of your life to be able to tell. Or am I wrong?”

Henry did not answer. He tried his best not to think about the things he said at the stocks; he tried not to think about the burning rage that overcame him back then, surprising both of them. 

“Am I wrong?”

Henry clenched his jaw and decided not to answer. 

“Well,” she added, politely clearing her throat and acting entirely unaffected, “as I was saying, gloves. That’s the only thing you’re missing.”

“Gloves?” he interrupted his own stubborn silence and turned in the saddle to look at her. 

“Yes, Henry, gloves.” Enneleyn smoothed out the fabric of the dress at her waist. “Your hands betray you.”

She was right.

As the heavy wooden gate opened, Henry was swallowed by the overwhelming wave of sound: dozens of lively conversations, someone’s pleasant laughter, tankards knocking against each other in toast, feet against ground as servants rushed to put food on the tables, and the faraway band playing a merry song he knew very well because it had been a part of each wedding in Skalitz that he had ever been to. The smell of flowers, perfume, food and freshly laundered clothes filled his nostrils, too, and even though it should have been overwhelming, Henry found it strangely invigorating. 

Invigorating enough, in fact, for his mood to sour just a small, insignificant amount when he was told to leave all of his weapons at the gate. 

“Now, let us both be brave and do what we do best,” Enneleyn whispered in his ear before being pulled to the side by the chamberlain. “Try to keep the mask on tonight, for both our sakes, yes?”

Henry nodded. 

At the very first glance—other than Lord Semine who greeted them at the gate—it seemed like he knew no one there. All those people, laughing and talking and dancing, were strangers, and it felt confusing: the song coming from somewhere deeper within the fortress was so familiar that it was hard for Henry to fully come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t back at Skalitz. That, if he turned the corner, he wouldn’t see Fritz trying to sneakily lift another cask of wine or Johanka pestering Bianka about helping her get Matthias’ attention. That if he turned around he wouldn’t see his mother wagging her finger at him, knowing all too well he was eyeing the same cask as Fritz. 

Henry shook his head. There was no point in this torment; he was there for a reason and he had to focus on that task first and foremost. And then, he could also try actually enjoying himself, instead of wallowing hopelessly in pain. He took a deep breath and swerved to the side to escape being trampled by servants carrying a roasted piglet; as he swerved, he noticed a cask of wine right next to him and did not hesitate even for a second to pour himself a full tankard. Pleasant warmth overcame him as he felt the last drops go down his throat.

Well, there goes the first drink… Oof, that’s some proper good wine, Henry thought to himself. The last time he drank wine of this quality was-

He stopped himself, clenching his jaw as hard as he could. No point in this torment. And the truth was that he would have succeeded in interrupting that train of thought—if not for a sudden realisation that made his throat tighten unpleasantly, the aftertaste of the rich red suddenly turning spoiled.

What if he’s here.

That was the plan, after all. By all accounts, there was a painfully great possibility that he would be there—already, or that he would arrive any minute. Henry took another look at all those laughing and dancing people, this time with nervous suspicion; he was glad his weapons got taken away or his hand would reflexively move to the hilt of his sword. 

As if his sword could save him from Capon. As if anything could. 

“Henry! Finally!” A loud voice pulled him out of his spiral. “You’ve no idea how happy I am to see you again!”

“Likewise!” Henry felt himself smile right away at the sight of the gamekeeper, genuinely booming with joy. “How are you?”

“How can I put this… I’m in a fix!”

“Oh? What happened this time?”

“Look around you! This much booze? This won’t end well! You have to help me! If you see me with booze in my hands, don’t let me drink it, or it’ll end badly for me!”

And Henry, as each and every time when asked for help, agreed—and it would not be the last sudden and random request he would agree to throughout the wedding, to a degree that the whole affair in his mind became separated into a grid of tasks and chores. Still, he did not mind: it was much better than the alternative, much better than looking around nervously constantly worried that he would suddenly see him somewhere. 

But the worry was still there, even if hidden and ignored, festering somewhere in the pit of his stomach—because of this, the wedding could be separated into a wholly different sort of sections as well. The drinks he had. 

And he had way, way too many. 

Second drink.

Truth be told, he could have gone with poetry: he knew many poems at that point and he found himself enjoying his own skill at finding a good rhyme and a clever turn of phrase immensely. Still, love poetry made him think of something— someone —he really did not want to think about, and then Myshka did not look like she was enjoying it much either. Trying his best to ignore Svatya’s very open and not subtle at all cheering from the sidelines, Henry decided to simply follow his instincts and be honest: to the surprise and delight of the pretty girl, and utter raging fury from Vuytek. Because it worked—before he fully realised what was happening, he was holding Myshka’s slender hand in his, and then his hand was on her waist, and then he was hoisting her up in a flurry of skirts and colours. He hadn’t danced in such a long time it made his head spin, and the way she giggled and kept up the banter only added to it. She was sweet and clever, and really quite pretty. Then they bowed, courteously, and smiled at each other, and then Myshka went somewhere else and he returned to Vitek and Svatya. Svatya wrapped his arm around him—so tight—and laughed loud, overjoyed that he won the bet; Vitek couldn’t stop grinning either, the sight of Vuytek swearing and kicking the ground in frustration sweeter than any honey cakes. Henry felt overcome with pride and merriment he missed terribly—and so he did not have to be asked twice to raise the tankard in toast to their own health, the warmth of wine starting to course through his veins, helping him forget any other worries. 

Third drink.

Henry walked out of the kitchen as slowly and inconspicuously as he could. Unfortunately, having already had some wine, he found it hard not to giggle: his pouch was bursting with the food he just sneaked out of the pantry and it felt entirely silly to pretend he was just taking a stroll. When he got back to the guard by the gate, his face already hurt from trying to stop himself from laughing, and he prayed to God while giving the alms to the beggars that it did not look like he was laughing at them. Enneleyn’s words rang out in his head again, for a brief moment— it is thankless and difficult, observing all of this so diligently that you can absorb it, even how to bark orders with disdain at servants and alehouse wenches the same way they do —and he felt sick. Therefore, when Tuma handed him a full tankard to celebrate the fact they managed to rid themselves of the unseemly issue at their gate before Von Bergow’s arrival, Henry did not hesitate but downed it all in one big chug. It was a really good wine, after all, and worked wonders when it came to dispelling any thoughts that tormented him.

Fourth drink.

Henry was not the only one who thought the wine was good; as he stumbled into the stable, he immediately spotted Vostatek with a tankard in his hand. He planned to simply take it off him and chew his arse out a bit for the sheer idea—but it turned out the wine he had already went to his head a bit quicker than he expected, and the second the tankard landed in his hands, he simply chugged it as well, all while wagging his finger at the gamekeeper sagely. He thought, briefly, about taking part in the sword fighting—there were two men in the pen at that point, clashing wooden swords—but then both the wine and the smell of hay overcame him, and he decided he really, really needed some fresh air instead. 

Fifth drink— or not.

Henry was happy the wine was good and so free flowing—otherwise dancing with Doubravka would have been actual torture. His new fancy shoes did nothing to protect his feet from being trampled, and his arm was already sore from how hard she pulled on it to keep balance. Still, she was a sweet girl, too shy for her own good, and he felt for her. If he could brighten her day just a little bit, he would. A little bit, truly, as he would soon understand that giving her a finger made her all too emboldened to ask for the whole arm: he refused, as politely as he could. All the politeness in the world did not help him not to feel like shit at the sight of the face she made, scorned and disappointed. It only made sense, then, to accept the drink she offered him, hoping to make peace. It was in that moment that he heard someone yell out his name, and so he put the drink down for a second and turned around—it was Svatya again, drunk already, set on teasing him about that Troskowitz brawl—and when he turned back again, someone rushing past had spilled the wine, half on the ground and half on the poor girl. She groaned in frustration and hid her face in her hands—and Henry shamelessly used that opportunity to bolt out of there. 

Sixth— well, fifth and sixth —drink.

Not everyone thought the wine was good; Jurko and the other Moravians spat it out under the table, shaking their heads with great disappointment. Henry had no other options, then, than distract the guard and get them the booze they really wanted. He had no other choice but to drink with them, too, and so he did. And then he had a second glass, too, because that Moravian liquor they brought was actually really, really good, and it’d be a waste not to drink it.

Seventh.

Vostatek was really damn stubborn. Henry shook his head in disappointment, making sure the disappointment was really, really apparent in that shaking. It was beer, this time, and a good one; something local. He would have applauded the gamekeeper’s choice if it wasn’t for all that righteous disappointment and head shaking happening. He shook his head a little bit too hard, perhaps, because the world kept on twirling and turning long after he stopped.

E- hic -eighth.

In any other scenario, seeing Gules there would absolutely piss him off: the injustice of it, how you can get away with anything just because you’re a noble, things regular people would get hanged for only get you a finger wagging when you’re blue blooded—funny that, his blood was just as red as Henry’s back when they fought between the towering rocks of Apollonia—but Henry was already just a little tiny bit wasted, perhaps, and also, good God in Heavens and all the Saints and blessed Virgin Mary, Gules was ridiculously hot. As if hypnotised, Henry watched a single crimson drop of wine disappear in the man’s beard, and when Gules caught him staring he just downed the whole tankard and wobbled away pretending he was urgently needed somewhere else. 

Nine? Nint h.

So he lost at dice, so what? It’s not the end of the world, especially if all it takes to try again is drink whatever they give him, and then play again. And next time, obviously, he’ll win.

Ttenth.

Shit. Next time, though.

11th? 

Fortune favours the… The what? Fortune favours the wasted, maybe, ha. Ha!

Twelfth.

Biblical number… Twelve apostles… For sure there was also something else about twelve. Twelve months in a year! Wait, that’s not biblical… Or is it? Who came up with the calendar? God? 

Lost the count.

Henry put the tankard down—unsure who even handed it to him—and thought briefly about going dancing again. It seemed less and less likely von Bergow would appear with every passing minute. Perhaps the only thing that was left was to enjoy the celebration. Maybe Myshka would agree to another dance; although, chances were, she would laugh at how absolutely wasted he was. He got up from the table he was sitting at—couldn’t tell when he sat down—and the world swayed and shook dangerously around him. His stomach was vehemently unhappy, too, and Henry realised he definitely did not have enough to eat.

Sakra, the last time he was so shitfaced, he was sneaking into the Rathaus cellar in nothing but his braies. And it was so unbelievably fun. So few things were fun back then, during those scary, painful months. But that was. He was. Picking the roses growing by the castle wall was so fun, too, as Henry could recall how hard he had to try not to laugh when the night guard passed him. And when he got back to the baths, holding onto the bouquet as if his life depended on it, one of the thorns cut a deep gash into that soft flesh of his palm right between his thumb and index finger—he felt it for weeks afterwards, because the small annoying wound would reopen each time he held a sword.

But he didn’t mind, back then, and now, looking down at his hands… Blacksmith’s hands… Well, the hands of a killer, too, if he was to be honest with himself… He liked that scar, among the myriad of other ones. A small, silver halfmoon. He would never admit why he liked that particular scar so much, but he did. Your hands betray you, Enneleyn said. She had no idea how deeply they betrayed him. No idea at all. 

He needed some air. He needed some time alone. All that dancing and merriment and song and laughter actually started getting on his nerves—the buzz from all the booze he had was slowly fermenting into deep, rotten melancholy. He was doing so well for so many hours, and God himself shielded him from what he feared the most, why then this heavy feeling out of the blue? He promised himself— fucking promised —he would not think about him . He wouldn’t care, not anymore, not since the pillory, not since all of it. He would find him, yes, because that was his task, and he would drag him back to Rattay, but he would not care. He would always remain loyal because that was the right thing to do, but he would not care. 

A loyal dog won’t bite his master’s hand even as it holds the axe to his wretched neck. 

Henry shook his head, and the world turned rapidly. Fuck him.

Fuck Capon. 

He stumbled up the narrow staircase above the dice tables; the guard and the servant drooling all over him were gone, thank God, and so he could just sneak there and have a moment for himself. Sober up a bit. Get a hold of himself, shake off whatever sudden pain was pestering him, and then he would go downstairs again and enjoy the rest of the night. 

He sat down on the floor, the smell of hay and wood surrounding him and calming his nerves a bit, the rhythm of wooden swords clashing downstairs a pleasant background to his tormented thoughts. The truth was he had no idea what he would do once the wedding ended. Where he would go. He closed his eyes, trying to calm down—but everything kept swirling in a blast of colours and shimmers, and his head and heart felt heavy. If only-

“A distant relative of the bride. Fifth cousin, you wouldn’t know me.”

No.

“For you, simple village people, maybe that was a show of some sword fighting skills… For me-”

No, no, no. 

Henry stood up so fast his vision went entirely black; he had to support himself against one of the wooden beams. Inhale in, exhale out.

No, no, no. 

He ran down the stairs, his drunkenness a bit too apparent still; he nearly toppled over one of the dice tables in the desperate rush to get outside. Bailiff Thrush shouted something but Henry did not listen at all, voices and sounds melting into one muddy mess in his aching head. His heart was beating so fast in his chest he was afraid it would break free, turning his ribs to broken gore. Maybe that would be a kindness.

Maybe he could just drop dead.

He could no longer hear the music or the conversations; it could as well be the middle of the night with how blind he was to the sun and everything that surrounded him. He knew he couldn’t keep on running—didn’t want to just fall down with everyone looking at him—so he tried to walk, but then he didn’t know where to, and he didn’t know what to do with his hands. If only he had his sword-

As if a sword could save you from him, yours or his. Only if he drove it through your heart, perhaps, and he doesn’t know mercy like that. 

Henry shook his head again, feeling bile in his throat. He was dangerously close to throwing up. Everyone kept staring, and he felt like everyone could see right through his chest and into his heart. 

You don’t deserve that mercy, dog. Noblemen die by the sword. You should swing. 

He wanted to run. He passed all the dancing couples, all the musicians, all the tables heavy with food and drink; he had eyes on the gate already. To Hell with von Bergow, to Hell with the wedding, Devil take the newlyweds, all he wanted was to run. 

He promised himself all those months ago that he would never run again: not from Cumans, not from bandits, not from Toth. But this was different. Any enemy, he could take. Any danger, any blade, any siege—but not this. Not him. 

Suddenly, a hand on his shoulder, abruptly pulling him out of the panic; Chamberlain's ugly mug, contorted in a mix of worry and sudden disgust. 

“Hey, boy,” disdain, “have you seen her?”

“What? Who?” Henry’s mouth felt like sand, and his heart was still pounding wildly.

“Kvyeta, of course! Miss Kvyeta… of Kolin, that is, naturally!”

“I thought she was with you,” he replied, in his mind the image of Enneleyn, in her eternal mask, putting up with the old lecher’s bullshit. The shock of the interruption blissfully worked like a bucket of cold water on his head. 

“She was! We were enjoying ourselves, dancing! And now she’s disappeared! Go and find her! Miller Kreyzl put you in charge of her.”

She’d stab you in the eye if she heard you say that, Henry thought. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing serious… When did you lose her?”

“I did not lose her!”

“Did you notice anything suspicious? Anyone hanging around her?”

“Now you’re onto something! There was someone hanging around her, a dirty scoundrel! Nasty!”

Henry felt his stomach churn, various types of alcohol mixing dangerously. There would be something poetic in it if he was about to puke straight onto the Chamberlain. 

“With a face so cheeky,” the man continued, not paying any attention to Henry’s state, “that you’d want to slap it at first sight!”

Henry’s stomach churned again—this time, it was less the booze and more a very worrying, unpleasant premonition climbing up his neck like a spider. Or a leech. 

“What did this… scoundrel look like?” he managed to get out, wondering how he was still able to stand upright.

“Like a cheeky bastard who could do with an icy bath and a few lashes of the cane!”

“I meant how I can recognise him,” Henry’s patience was slowly running out. 

“I see… Er… He was dressed in yellow.”

No, no. No. 

Don’t spiral.

Don’t howl.

“Why do you think he was suspicious?” He asked instead.

“The way he acted… Haughty, as if he had blue blood and shat pure gold. I have a nose for that.”

“Huh? For golden shit?” Henry asked, and realised he must really be wasted because it was suddenly really, really hard not to laugh. 

“Hmph! For young curs who think they’re the smartest in the whole world.”

Henry nodded.

“I’ll look for him,” he said, turning slowly around. As if he had to look.

He made his way back through the yard; he heard Myshka’s bright voice as she giggled at how wasted he was, and then Svatya tried to get his attention again—Henry used that opportunity to seize the man’s tankard and down it in one big gulp. Yes, he was drunk—and no, he was not drunk enough.

He could hear his voice even while still downstairs, by the dice table: it carried, both the melody of it and the rhythm of slightly prolonged syllables and emphasis always carefully paced to be as charming or as dramatic as he wanted. He could hear Enneleyn’s hushed whispers, too, cloyingly sweet. She was truly a master at that game; a master mirror, tickling their overblown prides. 

And this man was all pride. All pride and hot air, and unnerving, infuriating cockiness, and exasperating, shrilling voice. 

He missed his voice so fucking bad. 

Henry walked upstairs, holding onto the railing a little bit too hard to pretend he wasn’t wasted. Alcohol turned to noise in his head, an endless high-pitched hum drowning out anything else; he felt his cheeks burn hot like from the sun. 

“Ugh, yeah,” he said, standing at the top of the stairs and looking down at the pair cozying up to each other in the flickering light of the lantern. “The second I heard about a woman disappearing, I should have known you’d be behind it.” Henry put as much venom into his words as he could muster, reaching deep within himself to claw at all that rage and bitterness that coursed through his veins for the past weeks. 

Enneleyn rushed to her feet, surprised—and so did Hans, his bright eyes filled with a mix of shock and something else that Henry did not care to decipher. He was dressed—impeccably—in yellow, and Henry wondered how he even got groschen enough to afford such attire. Not through hard work, that was certain, the fucking bellator and his blue-bloodied fancy. 

“I reckon he’s talking to you..?” Enneleyn turned to face Hans. She was standing so close to him their hands nearly brushed against each other. If he could, Henry would grab her arm and pull her away from him.

“Henry! What the fuck are you-”

“How the hell did you get in here?!” Perhaps if he focused all his attention at screaming his heart would stop beating so wildly—perhaps if he funnelled as much hate as he could into his words, he would stop wanting to reach out and-

“What’s it to you?! I just did,” Hans’ voice was sneering and harsh, in a way as cruelly indifferent as it was intimately coined specifically for Henry. “I can take care of myself even without you on my arse.”

“You’re full of surprises,” Henry spat back.

“What are you doing here? Can’t you see I have company?” 

Dismissing him like a stranger. Like some servant. Can’t you see I have company? Go away! 

Banished to the kennels. You poor wretch. 

“Yeah,” Henry managed to get out, voice dangerously raspy. “She’s why I’m here.”

“Too bad, pal,” pal, “I saw her first. And I’m certainly not sharing.”

As if there was a scenario more hellish than that. Henry could feel blood rush to his head and his vision go blurry—blurrier than before. He wanted to believe it was rage and nothing else. 

“You can both have me,” Enneleyn said, sighing. Henry felt his heart in his throat. 

“ Don’t even think about it.” Hans cut her off, harshly. Where previously his voice was just annoyed and pompous, in that moment it became deathly serious. Commanding and bitter, and not allowing for even an ounce of opposition. 

“I did not say anything…” she shrugged. The mask stayed on. 

“Listen, Enneleyn, the Chamberlain is looking for you-”

“Who’s Enneleyn? You told me your name was Kvye-”

“Will you shut your mouth, for God’s sake?! For one, single fucking second,” Henry hissed through gritted teeth. 

Hans fell silent, even if indeed only for a second. 

“Watch your tongue,” Capon’s voice was lower, suddenly, grave.

There it is, Henry thought. How quick. 

Henry tried not looking at him—wanted to focus entirely on Enneleyn—but there was a cut on his cheek, right above the cheekbone, and a rough one at that. Wooden sword, it must have been, because of course he would have fought in that stupid contest, and-

Then who caused it? The groom, or Svatya, or old Lord Semine himself? 

It doesn’t matter, Henry thought to himself bitterly, swallowing down the urge to rush downstairs and wring the necks of all three of them. 

“W-why are you… Bothering my girl?” 

Henry didn’t even notice when Vuytek made his way up the stairs—and how, given the man was even more wasted than him. 

“You again?” he asked, thanking God and all the Saints for the interruption. If rage was to overtake him, punching Vuytek out of all people would at least seem deserved. 

“What do you mean, your girl? Bugger off, arsehole!” Capon sneered, waving his hand dismissively. 

“I was talking to h- hic -her first! I was just getting some wine!”

Then, Capon let out a cruel tirade at the villager, who, barely able to stand, still took it all quite commendably—being called simple and a drunk and a yokel. Perhaps he was too drunk to understand all the insults Hans spewed at him. But Henry wasn’t. There was no difference between the two of them in that moment; it made him feel some sort of pity towards the man which wasn’t there before. 

“Let it go,” Henry said, “We didn’t agree on anything. And forget about Myshka, she had no time for either of us.”

Capon snorted with disdain, and it made Henry’s blood boil again. 

“I’m having a really bad day today…” Vuytek whined as he turned on his heel and barreled down the stairs. “Women don’t want me… To my friends I’m a joke… All that’s left is the booze. Booze never lets you down…”

Henry tried to convince Enneleyn to return to the Chamberlain—but to no avail. It quickly became clear the only option left was to go to him himself and explain, and hope he would not throw him out of the celebration before Von Bergow arrived. 

“Right,” Henry said, swallowing both the bile and his own pride. “I’ll go and talk to Ulrich myself.”

“And I’ll go, too. As far away from here as I can!” Enneleyn exclaimed and made a step towards Henry. He felt an uncertain wave of relief—but it was short-lived, as in a blink of an eye Hans’ hand shot up and caught her by the sleeve of her dress.

“Wait a moment, petal,” his voice was courteous and sweet and Henry could vomit at the sheer sound of it, “What’s the rush?”

“Well… I can stay a little while,” she replied, a slight blush on her cheeks the proof of how much she enjoyed Capon’s attention. It was no longer the mask; it was genuine. “A young jack rabbit like you needs no more than that anyway,” she teased. 

Perhaps if I dove head first out of the window, this nightmare would end, Henry thought. His stomach churned again—rightfully so. The smirk on Hans’ face threatened to be the final straw. 

“Eugh,” Henry spat out, with as much contempt in his voice as he could force, “save that for when I’m gone.”

He made sure to shoot Enneleyn a final, judgemental gaze—she disregarded it completely—and turned around, the same exact way Vuytek did a moment ago, and went downstairs, feeling worse than he could ever imagine. 

He could still hear them as he walked through the yard: Hans’ sweet, seductive words, uselessly charming, endlessly infuriating. 

“Finally, we’re alone,” he could hear that smirk in every syllable. 

Disgusting and predictable. Selfish. Spoiled and rotten to the core. 

Henry’s hand travelled to his chest; grabbed his own shirt, right above the heart, and clenched his fist so hard he nearly ripped the fabric. For a second he thought God was merciful and blessed him with a heart attack—an end to this misery.

But Henry was born under an unlucky star, after all, and he would not be spared: it wasn’t a heart attack.

It was just pain, nothing more. Just plain old heartbreak, as mundane as the barking of dogs. 

Kvyeta’s—well, Enneleyn’s—slender hand travelled slowly from his calf up to his knee, in a move as masterfully calculated to appear shy as it was, in truth, brazen. Faint, yet with enough pressure to be felt quite distinctly through the fine fabric of his hose; a promise of indecent pleasure veiled in courtly appearances of utmost decency. 

“Even with two castles, my lord,” she continued, her nail tracing a meandering line across the seam line on his thigh, “it is a commendable kindness to share. A sacrifice, and a brave one at that.”

“Just my duty as a devout Christian,” he smiled, choosing not to make any moves of his own but simply watch her nimble fingers at their tireless, stubborn work. She was no stranger to this game; it made it all that much more thrilling. 

“Not… Too devout, I hope?” Enneleyn looked at him, her long lashes casting thin, trembling shadows on her full cheeks. Her eyes were dark and cunning.

“Well, we are all sinners in the eyes of the Lord, no? My devotion is as deep as it is focused on repentance for all the sins of my past… As well as those I’m about to commit,” he let his voice drop a bit lower, and observed with satisfaction as the woman’s chest rose in a slightly quicker rhythm of breathing. 

The crimson dress she was wearing embraced her curves in a manner truly worthy of all the grand European courts: the rich brocade, kermes-dyed and hand-woven, clung closely to her body, the softness of silk accentuating the suppleness of flesh in all the most desired spots. Well—other than her waist, that is. The seams there could have been tighter, a finger-width more, and it would pull the fabric in a neater way across the plane of her back, too, and—the dress, as he realised, even though expensive, was not made specifically for her ; the tailor did not fit it precisely for the very curves of her body. It must have been bought and brought to her, without enough time to go through final fitting; perhaps it was a gift, or passed down from a more wealthy relative-

“This dress…” Hans said suddenly, softly, interrupting Enneleyn slowly sneaking her finger past the hemline of his hose. “Is it Milanese, dove?”

“Ah, my lord,” a calculated smile and a flutter of dark lashes, tickled pride, “Tyrol, it came from. The tailor of the Habsburg court himself had sewn it for me last summer, and if you were to press your face just close enough to it, you could still smell the sweet Alpine air.”

Hans looked at her beautiful face and carefully committed to memory the slight curl of lip and the slight draw of the left eyebrow as she lied. Then, he smiled. 

“It does smell like a mountain meadow indeed,” he purred, lowering his head slightly closer to her breasts. “Like marigolds.”

She smiled, and moved an inch closer—warmth was radiating off her skin, emboldened by wine, along with the perfume. The perfume had a sharper note, too, herbal but fresh, familiar: mint. For the briefest of seconds, barely half a breath or less, Hans felt a hollowness in his chest that he had to focus quite hard to banish. Perhaps not banish,entirely—but push down; ignore. 

The sharp notes, always: scent of steel and iron, near indistinguishable from blood and soil; biting nettle and bitter mint, sour hint of sweat and leather, the spruce smoke in his hair—yet always softened, too, by chamomile and dandelions and marigolds. The worst of this world, dirty and harsh and painful, yet always underlined with softness; the warmth of the morning sun across a forest clearing, ferns and flowers covered in dew. 

“My lord?” Enneleyn asked, her tone slightly pointed, pulling him out abruptly from the vision that overcame him; even if only for half a breath, only for a second. 

Still, it was enough. 

Hans cleared his throat, smiled again—a well-practiced smile—and got up as elegantly and inconspicuously as he could. 

“I will bring us more wine, my dove,” he said, and bowed, before turning on his heel and walking to the stairs.

“Have we not had wine enough, my darling knight?” Enneleyn asked, nervously fixing the dress at her waist. “We would not want it to mire our… planned endeavours, no?”

At that point, Hans was no longer listening: he was counting the wooden steps as he made his way downstairs, cursing the fact that he even dared to pretend for a moment—a moment!—that this whole ridiculous wedding he wasn’t thinking about Henry and Henry alone. 

When he arrived—the wooden gate locking behind him with a loud thud, enclosing him within the absolute assault of smells and the incessant cacophony of sounds—the only thing on his mind was surviving the whole pathetic affair until Von Bergow arrived; to fix the hopeless mess they got into, prove he was not a total useless piece of shit, and then, hopefully, return to Rattay. Drink the whole Upper Castle cellar—get himself as shamelessly wasted as possible, and all only to forget the disgrace he got them into—and then go whore his way through every bathhouse in the domain. All only so that he could forget the disgrace he got himself into—the desire that, like rot, coursed through his wretched veins and poisoned his every waking thought and motion against his better judgement. 

He could return to Rattay alone, of course—he most likely would. Radzig would probably whine about it for an hour or a week, or until the end of fucking Lent, but then he would let it go: what’s one bastard when the fate of the whole of Bohemia was about to be decided; so would Hanush, eventually, and no one would care, and no one would pester him about the goddamn blacksmith’s boy or his whereabouts or his fate no more. Because the goddamn blacksmith’s boy made his choice, and being a big boy, should fucking lie in it. 

Festering in his anger and pent-up frustration, Hans spent the good first hour or two of the wedding trying to simply escape the uncomfortable questions of the villagers trying to place him firmly somewhere in the, most likely pitifully inbred, tapestry of familial connections either on the side of the lousy bride or the naive groom. He drank some wine—if that swill, closer to vinegar, could even be considered wine—but did not indulge, painfully aware he had to be ready for whenever the great Von Bergow finally arrived. 

He watched the villagers dance and dine and sing their simple, village songs; shook his head in disdain at how low the Semine noble line had fallen, the old lord marrying off his firstborn son to the daughter of the village bailiff. Such grim times, where mésalliance chased mésalliance, and the very natural order of the world threatened to fall apart like a child’s straw poppet left outside in the wild autumn winds. 

At one point, he finally found a spot secluded enough not to be pestered by slurred and stuttered questions—but still close enough to the celebration to be able to glean from overheard conversations whether Von Bergow arrived or not; he could observe the whole embarrassing spectacle, too. There was no part of him that would not be bitter: hardened by days upon days of having no one to talk to, tainted by nightmares and regret and the overwhelming understanding it was all his fault, useless wretch that he was. And because God—of course—had a truly rotten sense of humour, it was right when he was about to drown his anger and sorrow in a tankard of that vinegary piss that he heard it.

It was Svatopluk, the bailiff’s son—whose knuckles left a surprisingly deep bruise right above his right kidney—saying something, already sloshed, and in reply: a laugh. Short, loud, sudden, like a bark—unashamed,unbridled, contagious. The impact of it worse than if he had to take a Ottoman flanged mace straight to the heart. No other sound could stop his heart just as successfully. Unmistakable. 

He did not expect him to actually turn up; he did not know how he managed it, and he did not know he would even care enough to attempt it. He did hope—ugly, ugly word, ugly feeling—but he did not actually expect it. So when he heard him laugh across that yard, muting out all other sounds, he felt as heavy as if he was cast from pure lead. It was not terror, it was not confusion, and it was not just shock either: Hans did not know what it was, but it was overwhelming and absolute and so horrifyingly unbecoming. 

And when he looked, the low sun making him narrow his eyes, Henry was dancing. Dancing. Hans laughed to himself bitterly, like a madman, and downed the wine in one forced swallow, his shoulders shaking with the wincing wave of disgust at the taste. 

“Dancing,” he whispered to himself, more a venomous hiss than human speech. The girl was pretty—a simple, village sort of charm, but pretty nonetheless; he saw that hideous simpleton from the village pestering her unsuccessfully for the past two hours. But of course it took the fucking blacksmith’s boy a whopping two minutes to charm her. Of course. Hans could have been standing three miles away, or fifteen, or somewhere in Jerusalem, and he still would see Henry’s hands on her waist as sharp and stark as if he was standing right next to them. 

He had to stop himself from getting up and running across that stupid, simple crowd—just to stand in front of him and- And- And… He wouldn't know what to do. After all he had said, he couldn’t just- 

Hans stood up, swallowed hard, and turned around: he heard the old captain of the Semine guard say something about a sword fighting tournament, and that at least seemed like a pursuit more noble as a method of killing time until Von Bergow’s arrival than drinking himself to death. 

A parry and a strike, a feint, step to the side and return; a slash, another feint, a parry and a—and a sound of steps, already slightly swerving and shuffling, and his voice suddenly right next to the pen, loud and unbothered and disgustingly joyful. Hans felt his heart in his throat, abruptly forced to face him—and then the rough, blunt pain ripping through his face as his opponent used his moment of distraction and landed a blow right across his cheek. Hans hissed in pain, and parried the next blow, and pushed so hard, infuriated, that he disarmed the man in two swift, masterful swings of the wooden sword. Then, he sighed, straightened his clothes—prepared, in his mind, as best he could—and turned, slowly, as if entirely unaffected, to face Henry standing right next to that idiotic drunk of a gamekeeper. 

And Henry wasn’t fucking there. 

He did not notice him.

He entered the stable where the contest was taking place, talked to the gamekeeper, chugged his fucking drink, and left without noticing Hans right fucking there. The gall. The fucking gall.

The fucking gall! 

Hans threw the ridiculous wooden sword to the ground and bolted out of the stable—there was a lot he could withstand but there were limits to that, too. At this point it was fucking offensive, getting ignored— God, if he could have him caned, he would. No one could infuriate him to this degree. God, if he could have him lashed and dragged by horses around the joke of the fortress that Semine was, he would! He fucking would! 

Of course Henry was already drunk. Drunk enough, in fact, to be entirely oblivious to how the skinny whelp ogling him throughout most of the celebration was now sneakily pouring a whole schnapps into the tankard of wine she was about to offer him. Oblivious and naive, of course , with that awkward look on his face because he did not know how to deal with unwanted advances—he probably never really had to. But Hans had, many times, in the court of his father and then Hanush as well, and during various stupid visits to this and that castle—he had to know how to cut them short and how to guard his own fucking chalice. Otherwise he’d wake up violated and called to take responsibility for some spawn every other Sunday— God, the naive simplicity of a life unburdened by duty drove him mad with rage. 

He rushed across the yard, now bitterly aware Henry would not even notice him— and as soon as that hunching idiot of a bailiff's son called out to Henry, he shamelessly swatted the tankard away from the girl’s trembling hand, spilling the mix of wine and schnapps mostly on her, and then on the ground as well. Did not even apologise—the mewling thing should be glad he didn’t swat her fucking face while he was at it. 

Hans shook his head, realising he’d been standing like a total fool near the cask of wine for the past however many minutes; Enneleyn was probably on the verge of running out of patience. He grabbed two glasses, quickly, and returned upstairs, forcing himself with all his might to appear entirely unaffected. 

“Perhaps you would prefer to dance, my lady?” He asked with a charming smile, praying she would agree. He needed to get some fresh air, and he needed to actually focus on doing something—lest he drove himself insane with thoughts about someone who had the fucking gall not to even notice him for most of that imbecilic wedding. 

It was clear Von Bergow would not arrive. At least he could dance with Enneleyn, get drunk, sneak with her back to the hay-filled loft and get under her skirts. And then… Devil knew what he was supposed to do then. What a disaster. 

When they danced, his hand on her waist, it kept bothering him immensely that her dress did not fit right—he did his best not to show it, but Enneleyn was not stupid and noticed something was off immediately. 

“My lord, what is it? What soured your mood?”

“Nothing,” Hans tried to smile.

“Is it the fact that Von Bergow did not appear?”

Right, Hans thought. I forgot she was here to scheme, too.  

“No-”

“Is it Henry, then? Did he truly annoy you to such a degree?”

“Pfft, Henry? No,” he chuckled, mockingly, and berated himself in his mind for his first instinct being to tell her to get his name out of her mouth. 

“Well, I will not pry, then,” she cleared her throat politely and looked him in the eyes deeply. “But do try not to let it sour the whole night, yes?”

Hans nodded, in the back of his head counting the rhythm to the steps. This was far from the dances he actually enjoyed—besides, his leg was already giving him trouble and he was nowhere near drunk enough to power through it. 

And speaking of drunks, he thought to himself, and started to sneakily look around to check if he could still spot Henry somewhere. He couldn’t.

An unpleasant shiver ran down his spine—did he already leave? Was that one stupid heated exchange the only conversation they would have? Ugh, the gall.

Well, no, he thought. Henry, good and polite boy that he was, wouldn't leave without wishing all the best health and luck to the newly-weds. And given the newly-weds were nowhere to be found, it meant Henry must have still been somewhere, too. 

“Excuse me, petal,” he said, suddenly, his hands leaving Enneleyn’s waist. She was about to say something but he was already gone halfway through the garden.

There was some sort of commotion deeper into the fortress, and, led by a hunch, he bolted straight into that direction. 

A loud thud. A scream. 

“You want to fuck the bride, ya? Hypocrite?!”

Of course. How else could that evening end, if Henry was there, if not in a fucking brawl?

God, at last. 

“Fuck off,” Henry’s voice, rough and husky, was already in that dangerous tone right before the breaking point.

Hans found himself next to him so fast as if Nike herself carried him on her wings—didn’t even have to wait for Henry to get up and throw the first punch; all it took were Vuytek’s kicks that landed, with a loud, horrid thud, all across Henry’s back and stomach, and Hans threw himself at the imbecile with all that pent-up, impatient rage. His fist made impact with a satisfying, loud sound.

With that prick away for at least a second, Hans leaned over Henry, triumphant smile on his lips.

“Someone’s been coveting their neighbour’s wife, eh?” he yelled loudly, his chest nearly bursting with joy. Finally, things would be back to how they should be—the two of them, side by side, against the fucking world!

“Bollocks,” Henry spat. There was both disdain and blood in his spit, and it gave Hans pause. He suddenly felt uneasy. He offered Henry his hand—and he took it, got up, and then immediately let go, as if burned by fire. He took two steps to the side so fast it made Hans feel as if he was a leper. 

“Not that I blame you…” he tried keeping his tone light and jesting, “but you might have waited until this lot went home…”

But Henry did not look at him; he wasn’t even looking at the rabble of drunken villagers getting ready, fists raised, to give them hell. Henry was looking away. 

Away from him. 

“Henry-” he started, and winced at how needy his own voice came out. Pathetic. A desperate plea, embarrassing, unbecoming-

“Leave me the fuck alone,” Henry growled, still without looking at him. Then, before any of them could say anything, a barrage of blows rained down on them, and Hans was left speechless and confused, trying to defend himself and still force Henry to look back at him at least for the briefest moment. 

There was something in Henry’s eyes that Hans found himself horrified of. There was a shadow across his face that Hans did not recognise. He wanted all to be back to the way it was—why didn’t Henry?

“Hal-” he half-whispered.

Perhaps it was that whisper that Henry somehow heard among the loud, drunken voices and curses and violence—or perhaps it was the fact that a stray blow fell right onto Capon’s face, right across that cheek, reopening the wound: and a couple of droplets of crimson blood sprayed out, marking his collar and somehow reaching Henry’s sleeve, too. 

During one of the countless masses in the name of Hans’ mother, once she passed, the priest—or the bishop, it was, he was nearly certain, even though he himself was still a child and not very aware of any hierarchies, least of all the Church one—well, the priest rambled and rambled from the pulpit about all the dangers awaiting man in this realm and all others. And he told a horrifying story about an even more horrifying concept: possession. How a man could become possessed by the forces of evil, demons and devils, if he was not careful—how everything about him would change, how he would be led by some strange and scary powers escaping the limits of mortal understanding. Hans could remember how scared he felt, orphaned, in that dark and looming church, hearing those words—imagining the demon taking over those precious few people he had left. 

But now, he wasn’t scared. Even though he could swear, like any other mortal soul witnessing what happened before his eyes, that it must have been possession. What else?

What else to call what happened to Henry the very instant he saw Hans’ blood on his collar, and on his own embroidered sleeve? What other name could be used for that sudden, blind, terrifying rage that overcame him?

Hans only stood there, too shocked to move—and the blacksmith’s boy, a moment ago stubbornly refusing to even look at his face, suddenly right at his side, in righteous fury: ready to kill with his bare hands anyone who even dared stepped closer to his lord. 

It was possession, yes—just no demons or devils were at play. 

Just the two of them—bound to each other—against the world. 

Chapter Text

It was already dark when Chamberlain’s guards forced them onto a wagon: they weren’t delicate about it—had no reason to; the truth was that they would much rather drag their three new lowly prisoners to Trosky on foot as a form of early punishment for ruining the wedding and a shift that should be otherwise uneventful. Still, as it was past nightfall already, the Chamberlain insisted they take the wagon; he wanted to make sure he could throw them into the dungeon as quickly as humanly possible, and then pass judgement as quickly as possible as well. Before Von Bergow returned and judged for himself—to save him the trouble, of course. 

In the shaky light of the torch held by the guard sat closest to them, Hans studied Henry’s face. He would never admit to that, nor get caught staring—but Henry was so adamant about not gracing him even with a single second of his gaze that Hans felt all the more emboldened to allow himself to look. 

The immediate results of the brawl that just took place were stark and apparent, yet limited: the left side of Henry’s face was beginning to swell, and bright red welts bloomed across his jaw and cheek; still, very few blows landed anywhere above his torso, let alone his head. It was the older details that caught Hans’ attention, additions predating the wedding: a new scar, still raised and jagged—dull blade—at the side of his temple right next to his eye socket, disappearing in his hairline in sisterly tandem to the thin pale line that he remembered being there already when they first met in Rattay. Then, another one, broader yet more shallow, cutting through his jawline and reaching his earlobe; it would be less visible if not for the fact that Henry must have shaven the night before the celebration, the stubble only now returning in a heavy shadow. A third one, deep and small, above his eye, where skin must have split beneath someone’s armoured fist.

But the circles beneath his eyes weren’t that dark or that deep, and his cheeks weren’t hollow—whatever Henry got up to in the past weeks, he must have slept and eaten well; or, at the very least, better than Hans. Since they parted, Hans did not have one peaceful night, and he had to force himself to eat instead of actually enjoying any of the meals; it was miserable. 

Suddenly, Vuytek—up to that point entirely silent—shook and heaved, and leaned out over the side of the wagon: then, he puked, with power enough to reach far into the night. One of the guards pushed him, immediately and reflexively, and the other swore loudly, moving away from him. Hans winced at the smell and tried not to breathe; if not for the fact he had to try to save himself from following suit, he would have yelled at the fucking yokel the same way the guards did. 

But Henry didn’t flinch or yell: he furrowed his eyebrows and reached out, hands bound together, in Vuytek’s direction. 

“Hey, look at me,” he said, his voice raspy and rough from not speaking for a long time—and all the booze. 

“F-fuck off,” the man replied, weakly, as another heaving wave came over him. 

“Shut the fuck up, both of you!” one of the guards yelled, waving the torch in front of their faces. 

“Look at me,” Henry persevered in a hushed but stubborn tone, “just for a second, you absolute idiot, look at me!”

Vuytek looked at him and did not move away as Henry grabbed his chin, steadying his face as much as the rope around his wrists allowed for. Hans watched, both baffled and in silent awe, as Henry stared in complete focus onto the man’s eyes, ignoring the vomit around his mouth. 

“What the- the fuck are you doing,” Vuytek blabbered, head swaying on his shoulders. The guard closest to them was about to say something—even extended his arm, ready to swat either of them across the back of their head—but stopped once he understood what Henry was doing; rolled his eyes and lowered his hand. 

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Henry asked, one fist clenched, the other extending three fingers as visibly as he could with the bindings. 

“Three, you fucker… Do you think I can’t count, you arsehole?” Vuytek spat; he reacted a bit too aggressively, however, and another strong heave overcame him. He leaned over the side of the wagon again but nothing came out.

“Any ringing in your ears?”

“Just your stupid voice, you-”

Another heave stopped Vuytek from finishing the sentence; a loud splash hit the side of the wagon and the guards, disgusted, groaned in unison, urging the horses to go faster. 

“Good, it’s just the booze,” Henry muttered, more to himself than anyone else. The guards could not care less—neither did Vuytek—and simply shook their heads at what they perceived to be a waste of time. Hans felt his throat tighten slightly: under any other circumstance, he would have found Henry’s examination fascinating, even if deep down he would have deemed it as useless as the guards did—after all, who would care if some village idiot got hit on the head just a little bit too hard? He started it, after all. 

But a memory sneaked into Hans’ tired mind, treacherous and surprising: it was a couple of weeks after Henry defeated him when they duelled in the pen on the Rattay green; right before he was supposed to leave for Ledetchko to look for the potion Hans asked him to procure. He had the bright idea then, emboldened by Henry’s docile agreement to help him with whatever he asked of him, apparently, to challenge him for a rematch—and he got beaten, again, to such an embarrassing degree he could feel his old fencing tutor spin in his grave. They used blunt weapons, then, and he had his bascinet on, yet the blow right to the side of his head was so strong that it made him see double for a moment. Any other opponent would boast, in the worst case, or simply disregard it in the best one—but not Henry. He spotted it immediately—the way Hans swayed on his feet and tried to blink the confusion away—and in a second he was right by him, gloves cast off, one hot hand in the crook of his neck and the other tearing his helmet off. His eyebrows furrowed in focus, lips drawn, worry painted on his face: and his eyes so stubbornly looking into his, tracking each movement and each constriction of his pupils with such intent that Hans could feel the intensity of it long weeks after it happened. Can you hear me, Sir Hans? Are you alright? Look at me.

It felt strange to witness the same being done to some village imbecile; it caused something vile to churn within the pit of Hans’ gut. 

Suddenly, he realised Henry was looking at him; caught him staring. It was an unpleasant stare: confused and expectant. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he heard himself say suddenly, tone mocking and unnecessary, “you didn’t hit him that hard.”

Henry just shook his head, slowly, in disappointment so bitter Hans could feel it in the back of his throat. He did not look at him again all the way to Trosky. 

The mouldy walls of the cell were cold as they made impact with Hans’ back; Henry, thrown in after him, still made a point of not looking at him at all—yet he did, in that split second when Hans hit the wall, assess whether he hit it hard or not. His protectiveness could not be quenched by any coldness, no matter how purposeful and calculated and deserved it was; Hans was convinced he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. It was a reflex, and a deep-rooted one at that; sometimes it drove Hans mad, especially when it got them into trouble or was wasted on someone utterly undeserving. Sometimes it made him jealous, the awareness that he himself lacked it entirely a thorn in his side no matter how hard he pretended otherwise. Sometimes, however—and that was one of those times—it made Hans’ heart hurt. He did not know exactly why, or what were the particular emotions fermenting there, but the sum of them led to a squeezing pain in his chest and some sort of baffling melancholy that threatened to spill over and have him make a fool out of himself. 

It distracted him, then, for a short moment, from how small and musty the cell really was—how mouldy and damp the walls were. The distraction passed very quickly, nearly as quickly as it appeared, and then the very condition of their current reality dawned on him with twofold force. He slid down, back firmly against the wet stone, and sat on the hard floor, hiding his face in his hands. The cell was really small and really musty, and the walls were really wet and really narrow. And it was a cell. 

“Fuck!” he exclaimed, suddenly, his voice a tone higher than he himself expected. “Did they have to lock us up in here, of all places?!”

He groaned and looked up at the ceiling—it was wet, too, and stupidly low. Henry did not say anything—did not look at him—just sat opposite of him, unmoved.

“I have a feeling these walls are moving! This cell is getting s-smaller and smaller…” he gritted his teeth. “Can you hear me?! Let me out!”

Henry grimaced at how loud he shouted; still, he did not look at him, instead staring at a wall. 

“Hey! Hear me?!” Hans could feel his throat already getting sore from the shouting but he did not care: the injustice of it all started to really get to his head. “Hey!”

“Give it a rest,” Henry said suddenly, voice so low it was nearly a growl; resigned and annoyed. “No one’s coming.”

“I feel like we’re going to be crushed here!” he replied, quickly, as if the very fact Henry spoke to him had to be a chance seized and acted upon before it dissipated. He hoped Henry would say something more—but he didn’t. 

“And it’s all so…. Fucking damp!” he shook his head, rubbing his palms against his neck. The collar of his shirt was starting to piss him off—everything started to piss him off, including Henry’s stubborn silence and refusal to even look at him. What a donkey. They were locked in a cell together—even though Hans could have just not gotten involved, for fuck’s sake, but he wanted to help—and the man wouldn’t even look at him. The gall! 

Hans really wanted to make Henry look at him. Force him. Order him. 

Of course, if he ordered it, then Henry would look at him. And it would feel rotten, and Henry would know very well that it did. Henry had a maddening skill, rare and wildly fucking infuriating: he could follow an order in a way that made it feel like he was spitting in your face. Like the time-

Hans had the strange hollowness appear in his chest again, as if a ghost passed through him, and he felt his breath hitch in his throat for a second. That was such a pointless thread of thought. Pointless and, more pointedly, vehemently unnecessary. If he was to be honest with himself, it wasn’t even true. Unfortunately, for both of them, Hans Capon of Pirkstein had a nasty habit of lying to himself—and especially when it came to Henry and all the things he felt that he would never, ever face. 

Still: he really wanted to have Henry look at him, at last. 

“Listen,” he said, starting off strong and then quickly wavering. “Henry.”

Henry did not look at him. 

“I wanted to say that… Well. That I’m glad… I’m happy to see you again.” 

Please look at me.

The cell was so, so small. The air tasted sour on his tongue and he felt like a child. 

Henry still simply sat in front of him, unmoved—did not say anything but simply shook his head, very slowly and barely visibly, as if in disappointment. 

“Henry,” Hans tried again, praying his voice wouldn’t break. God, it was all so unbecoming; he wished some rage would return to him, but everything that he felt was just overwhelmingly sad. Just please look at me. 

If Henry just looked, if he could just catch his gaze for a second, then he could fix it. It would be back to how it was before. If only he looked-

In the stuffy silence of the cell, among the dust swirling in the unsteady light of torches outside, Henry looked up and right into Hans’ eyes.

And Hans did not know what to do or what to say. He just felt his heart in his throat. 

“Mhm,” Henry shrugged slightly.

“Oh, come on,” Hans shuffled, looking at his shoes. “I was… I was stupid. All the things I said, I was stupid to say them.”

“Yeah, you could have kept them to yourself,” Henry barked back.

“I was stupid to even think them,” he rushed to explain, feeling his voice falter. “I don’t… I don’t think that. I don’t think that about you.”

“The useless, stupid peasant shit, that part?”

“Yes,” Hans winced at his tone. “And-”

“How your life went to shit since the moment you met me?”

Hans swallowed, hard, and a longer moment of silence fell on them both. His skin felt clammy.

“I… I said that?” he asked. 

“Ha, you don’t even remember, do you?” Henry asked, his gaze once again unrelenting and unpleasant. 

“Because I didn’t mean- I don’t think that. I don’t.” Hans started fidgeting with his own fingers, this time avoiding Henry’s eyes. “Listen, I… Henry, you were right. I behaved…”

Oh, it was so fucking hard to say. Why did he make him say it all? Why did he look at him like that?

“I behaved awfully. All that I said… I can only ask you to forget it. I didn’t mean it.”

Another moment of loaded silence. The walls of the cell kept closing in. 

“Do you realise,” Henry started, and his voice was rough and infuriated, “the shit you’ve got me into?”

“Henry-”

“I was stuck in a foreign region, far from home,” he continued, his anger bubbling up, “without any money to my name, without any of my things, without my dog or my horse-”

“I-”

“And the worst of it all, I was completely alone,” his final words were no longer angry. It was sadness, now, and regret; honest like a blade. Hans felt a horrifying shiver run down his spine—like he was about to cry. Everything in him wanted to just close that distance between them and sink into Henry’s arms, knowing they would wrap around him no matter how angry he was with him. If he gave in, if he capitulated, Henry would have no choice but to just forgive him—hold him. 

“I behaved like a fool,” he whispered, instead, daring once again to look into Henry’s eyes. He looked, desperately, for any sign that they softened, at least a little bit. 

“You did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s just a word,” Henry shook his head. “It doesn’t…” he inhaled sharply through his teeth. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Apology accepted.”

It wasn’t. 

Hans felt nauseous. He had to focus on something else than the walls closing in and Henry’s anger, or he’d go mad.

“So…” he cleared his throat, picking up a piece of straw to turn in his hands, “What did you get up to, all that time?”

Henry inhaled, as if he had to brace to talk to him.

“This and that.”

“Right,” Hans started, teasingly. “Your favourite thing, this and that.”

Henry did not reply. Hans’ heart sank as the bait did not take; another moment of silence. 

“You worked at the forge, no?” he asked, tying the straw into a knot absent-mindedly. 

“I did,” Henry looked at him again, shrugging. “In Tachov.”

“I overheard the blacksmith talk about you at the wedding,” Hans said. It was a half-truth: he did overhear the blacksmith talk about Henry. Many people talked about Henry at the wedding. But that wasn’t how he learned that Henry worked at the forge.

He could not admit how he knew that—he could not admit that he looked at Henry’s forearms with such focus, during the wedding and in the wagon, that he noticed the new, tell-tale scars they were specked with. Small constellations where the smithy sparks landed. Still slightly red—but soon they would fade, pale, back into the rest of his scars. Soon they would stop being visible, the moment that sun would have chance enough to touch his skin and turn it darker. 

“The sword that he gave to the groom, did you make that?”

“I did,” Henry shrugged again. 

I wish I could tell you how impressive it was, Hans thought. I wish you could know the pride I had to swallow down.

“A damn good sword, that.”

“Mhm.”

“But you came in with the miller, no? And Kvyeta. Well, Enneleyn.”

“Yeah,” Henry rubbed his shoulder, stretching slightly. “Crazy man.”

“Like every miller under the sun, eh?”

“Yeah.”

There were a thousand things Hans wanted to say—and not a single one he knew how to say. He wanted, desperately, to keep the conversation up, to work Henry bit by bit, joke by joke, sentence by sentence, until he actually forgave him. Until it would feel like it did before he messed it all up. 

He couldn’t believe how stubborn Henry was. He must have been really… Well, hurt. 

Hans started to be horridly worried he would actually start crying. He did it again, he always would: he would always fuck everything up, let everyone down, and say or do something he didn’t mean and end up hurting people he cared about. He hid his face in his hands again, groaning in frustration that he hoped Henry would interpret as a reaction to their imprisonment alone and nothing else. 

Why did it feel so rotten for one man to be angry with him? Like never before in his life—never.

“And you?” Henry asked, suddenly. It was clear he had to fight himself to ask that question, and force himself to have his tone return to neutral. Conversational, even. 

If he could, Hans would actually knight him for that effort, he was so grateful. 

“I also did what I do best,” he replied, clearing his throat and smirking slightly. 

“What, boozing and whoring?” A hint of mockery; still, more familiar than hurtful. A change so welcome Hans felt dizzy.

“Ha fucking ha! Hunting, that is.”

The face that Henry made made his mood sour all over again. 

“You mean poaching?” he asked, hushed. “Jesus, Sir Hans…”

“Commoners poach! I hunted. In the domain of another noble and without his permission, yes, but that’s still hunting.”

“It’s poaching,” Henry’s voice was low again, husky. “It’s a capital crime.”

“Aw, come on, it’ll be alright,” Hans waved his hand. “It’s a non-issue. You’ll see.”

“How did you even get the gear? We arrived in Troskowitz like a pair of beggars.”

“By using the old noggin, what can I say,” Hans tried not to beam with pride openly. “I pulled a strong thread out of those rags I had on and made a snare for game. Before you could say jack rabbit I was hawking half a dozen hares around the local cottages!”

Henry winced at the word jack rabbit but did not say anything. It took him a moment to digest what Hans said—and force himself not to be at least a little bit impressed—and only then he spoke again.

“Weren’t you worried about the local gamekeeper?”

“That nitwit? I found out he was fond of the booze… So when he was sleeping it off, I snooped around his lodge. Once, I even… err… Borrowed a bow and a quiver full of arrows.”

“Thieving, too, to top it all? Christ!”

“Oh, give over! Once things are sorted out I’ll just give it all back. It’s alright.”

“You’re treating it way too lightly,” Henry rubbed his left eye with his fingers absent-mindedly, and winced as he felt the remnants of last night’s brawl threatening to bloom into a black eye. “I pray you’re right.”

“I have never treated anything too lightly in my life,” Hans replied, cocky light-heartedness returning to his voice, “I’ve always treated everything with just as much gravitas as it demanded. All very proportionate, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Henry replied, nodding, “Sir Hans Capon, famously the master of never underestimating the shit he’s gotten himself into.”

“Hey!” Hans threw the tied up piece of straw at Henry, missing his head just barely. “I am really good at estimating the shit I get myself into! Or you, for that matter.”

Henry looked at him and a shadow of a smile appeared on his face; the relief that washed over Hans in that moment must have been greater than the waves on the Black Sea itself. 

“Just one of the many skills from the rich variety a bellator can boast about, eh?” Henry asked and the remark, even if mocking, was no longer cruel. 

“Also, I would like to point out that I am currently stuck in a cell precisely because I behaved like a bellator. I could have just left you to brawl with those imbeciles on your own.”

“You could have.”

“But I didn’t!”

“Aye, you didn’t. We can pretend it was for my sake,” Henry stretched his neck, “or we can just be honest about the fact that you would not pass on a chance to punch someone annoying even if your life depended on it, Sir Hans.”

“Two things can be true at once,” Hans smiled, contrary and cocky. 

“With you, yeah, I can believe that.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Henry chuckled under his breath. “Nothing, Sir Hans. Water under the bridge, eh?”

Hans intertwined his own fingers together so it would not be visible that his hands were shaking.

“Really, Henry?”

“Yes,” Henry sighed. “I need my strength to deal with the trouble we are currently in. Can’t waste it any more on all this…” he picked up some straw himself and gestured vaguely with it, “...heartbreak and whatnot. And you’ve apologised, so there’s that, too.”

“It might be a first in my life,” Hans grinned, smug, forcing himself to ignore the one particular word Henry used because, God, he must have just used it fully accidentally. 

Right?

God?

“With you, yeah, I can believe that,” Henry followed up, slightly amused. “Also, it was refreshing to have Svatya on our side this time. That boy can punch.”

“Svatya? Which one was that?” Hans asked, as if the bruise over his kidney didn’t still hurt. As if he did not count the times that the bailiff’s son put his arm around Henry during that imbecilic wedding. 

“You are transparent as a mountain spring, Sir Hans,” Henry laughed further, shaking his head. “You know very well who that is and how well he can land a punch.”

Even though the cell was still dark and small, the air stopped tasting sour. 

“I am an open book, what can I say,” he replied, raising his arms in feigned benevolence. He was happy that was the only part of his thoughts about Svatopluk that Henry cracked. He could not have him know the rest, or even as much as suspect them. That’d be too embarrassing. 

“Or I’m just good at reading,” Henry shrugged, looking into his eyes.

“Good God, you’ve only learned, what, last summer? Don’t be so full of yourself, Henry, it’s unhealthy.”

“There are so many things I learned since last summer that, and you have to forgive me Sir Hans, I will boast about them until the Judgement Day. Unhealthy or not.”

Hans rolled his eyes, forcing himself not to smile. He would never admit that if he could, he would boast about Henry all the time as well. 

“And it’s a sin, too!” Hans wagged his finger in perfect mimicry of Henry’s favourite gesture. 

“Oh, yes,” Henry barked out in sudden laughter, “because you and I, we count our sins like consecrated virgins, eh?”

Hans felt his heart hurt a bit, again, but it wasn't unpleasant.

“Henry, your soul’s eternal salvation or damnation are a very serious subject!” he grinned.

“Well, as you’ve said, you are the master of proportionate reactions to issues at hand, Sir Hans,” the blacksmith’s son shamelessly reciprocated the smile. “So I will leave that one worry to you, and myself, I’ll just keep on sinning.”

“Well,” Hans focused on keeping up his impish grin and not on the fact that he could feel blood rush to the tips of his ears, colouring them red, “can’t have you sin alone, my fearless escort, so I will risk my immortal soul to keep you company in that endeavour.”

“I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your sacrifice, then, noble sir” Henry laughed and emulated a bow as much as possible given they were both sitting on the floor of the cell. 

For a heartbeat or half of it, it felt like back in Rattay again. 

“Oh, wait,” Hans hushed him suddenly, “There’s something going on outside the door. Hear?”

Henry held his breath and looked at the door, then back at Hans. The guards outside were talking about Captain Thomas—the very same they met with a full entourage the first time they entered the Trosky region. Back when they were all still alive. 

“Captain Thomas!” Hans gasped, sudden colour returning to his face. “Yes! He met us before the whole pond thing, didn’t he? We showed him our letter!”

“But he’s in a fever,” Henry replied, hesitant. “You heard them. He’s in a bad way.”

“We’ll deal with that somehow,” he waved his hand. “Hey!”

Henry winced at the volume again.

“Leave it be,” he hissed.

“Hey! Open up, you rabble!” Hans was getting animated, scrambling to his feet. “We’re messengers from Rattay! Your captain can confirm it!”

Outside the door: silence.

“Do you hear?!”

“Ugh, again?” one of the guards could be heard through the thick wood of the door. “These damned fools won’t give us any peace.”

“Come on, fellahs! Be reasonable!” The young lord was now right by the door, ready to bang his fist on it. “We’re envoys of the Lord of Leipa!”

“And I’m Pope Joan!” the guard sneered, hitting his halberd against the door and sending Hans back two steps with the sudden sound of it. “Want to see my cunt? You better shut your hole right now.”

“Very funny,” Hans muttered, and returned to his spot in the cell. He stood there for a moment, hands thrown up in resignation. Then, he sat back down, clearly favouring his left side again. 

“They have no reason to believe us,” Henry said, trying to sound calm. “Don’t aggravate them.”

Hans just shook his head. 

“We need to get to Captain Thomas, somehow, Henry. That’s the only-”

Suddenly, the door opened widely, letting in more light than their eyes were used to for the past couple of hours. Henry shielded his face with his palm; he could see, through his fingers, Hans jump back up to his feet again.

“Oh, it’s about time!” In a blink of an eye he hobbled over to the guard. “Just wait until Sir Otto hears how you’re treating a noblema-”

The guard’s armoured hand hit against his chest, stopping him. Then, the man turned to Henry.

“You! Come with me to the courtyard. Chamberlain’s orders!”

Henry furrowed his brows, slowly getting to his feet.

“We ain’t gonna waste bread on you for nothing,” the guard continued. “We’ve got a job for you.” He pushed Henry, roughly, into the doorway—allowing him only a fraction of a second to turn back and look at Hans. 

“Wha… What about me?! I want to talk to your captain, right now!”

“You want to talk to God, fellah,” the guard spat out, inches away from his face. “You’re getting the gallows for poaching.”

Henry stood outside of the cell, the other guard’s heavy palm firmly on his shoulder and his halberd right in the corner of his vision—yet he did not feel anything else and did not see anything else but Hans, in that narrow opening, illuminated by the dim light of the cell. 

His bright eyes were wide in disbelief—and fear. 

“What..?” Hans’ voice came out weaker than he wanted. “But you… You can’t… You can’t hang a nobleman!”

“Jesus, wait!” Henry pleaded, trying to get the guard’s attention; yet he was unmoved, and slammed the door in Hans’ face. 

“Hear that?” the guard sneered as the loud, booming sound of bells reverberated through the castle walls. “That bell’s tolling for you, mate. Twelve more times and the priest’ll come for ya.”

“Hans!” escaped Henry’s lips in a rough and shaky shout, so unwillingly and reflexively that it surprised even himself. He tried to push the guard off but soon got overpowered by the two of them, dragging him out of the dungeon. 

He wanted to turn back, run to the cell—ask the guards to hang him instead. He wanted to kill them with his bare hands and he wanted to kneel and beg—he wanted to cry and shout and set the world on fire. 

“But you can’t!” a wavering, weak shout came out of the cell, through the closed doors. “You-you… You can’t…”

He could hear Hans’ breathing become wild, uneven—he couldn’t hear anything else. 

The guards pushed him outside, and the world kept turning as if he was drunk again.

There was a part of Henry that was still white hot in anger: righteous and rightful fury at how irresponsible his lord was, and how pitifully unaware of the consequences of his actions, especially when those consequences had the potential to affect someone other than himself. The frustration and hurt still swirled somewhere deep under his skin, only fermented further by the fact that he forced himself to accept Capon’s apology, knowing he had to let his own anger go for the sake of both of them. There was still a part of him that hurt, deeply and embarrassingly, and that blamed Capon for that undeserved pain. 

But at that moment, looking at the grand Trosky towers looming over him and hearing the bell echo ripping through the air, with his whole being Henry felt only one thing: crushing fear.

Hans will die. 

The panic that set in was surprising—different than anything else he experienced. There was no shouting, no running, no feverish rush, no tears: all that Henry could feel in his body was numbness. As if he was dying in the emptiness of a field in February frost: slowly freezing, heavy, unable to move. So cold—in the middle of summer he felt like he was a block of ice. 

He clenched his fists, trying to bring back circulation into his fingers; to no avail. His skin was cold and his joints ached; still, the worst of the cold was inside, somewhere deep, above his heart and under it. In his throat and in his stomach, clinging to his spine, rattling around in his head: freezing wind, hard snow, ice upon ice like a dead, frozen lake. 

Once again, the fates mocked him: one short moment of respite, one sweet second of relief, and he had to pay the worst price for it—and all while the sun was bright in the skies and a light breeze carried the song of birds. 

Hans will die. 

Poaching or not—it was Henry who got them into that mess directly. Maybe he could have stopped Vuytek, somehow, maybe he could have just not talked to the bride. Maybe he could have, good God, not accepted Svatya’s stupid bet. If he didn’t dance with Myshka, maybe then none of that would happen. Maybe-

Henry felt his stomach turn painfully. All this misery was now joined by simple, mundane hunger, and nausea brought by the last of the digested alcohol. It felt so ridiculous to feel something as simple as hunger—while his lord was about to hang. Someone passed him, saying something; his brain did not even register whether it was a man or a woman or a child: the words and voice muddled, so painfully irrelevant.

The world was unmoved and unbothered, somehow, by the fact that it was about to end; the cruelty of that fact nearly made his knees give out. 

He could imagine going back to Rattay, tail between his legs—with the news that not only did he fail to deliver the message to Von Bergow but he got-

Henry swallowed, hard, and his spit tasted like iron.

He got Hans executed. 

Couldn’t stop it. Didn’t. He could imagine walking up the yard to the Upper Castle at Rattay, falling to his knees before Radzig—unable to say those words. Unable to say anything but beg, through tears and gritted teeth, to be put out of his misery; be allowed only the mercy of last rites and being buried at Hans’ feet. 

He finished carrying the sacks, feeling the sun on his back; still, it did nothing to warm him up, even as droplets of sweat rolled down his forehead. The bell rang out again and it made him physically wince, bile rising in his throat. He had to do something—he had to stop it, somehow, get Hans out, reach captain Thomas, something, anything. It was all on his shoulders, again. For a moment, if felt wretched: it felt unfair and bitter, and all the tumultuous feelings he had been dealing with for the past however many weeks returned, churning and festering within him. 

The lord gambles with his life and it’s the dog, again, that bleeds trying to save him. 

But as he walked across the yard, strangers passing him in a rush to fulfil their own duties, some of the ice encasing his heart in panic started to melt—it wasn’t the sun that caused it but duty. 

To be responsible for saving his lord’s life—to be allowed to fight for him—was a privilege. It was his duty, as sacred as if given to him by God himself. It was entrusted to him by the lord of his domain—who fathered him —and the lord of Leipa, the closest relative of the future ruler of Rattay. To him. Henry, just a lost boy from a village that was no more.

It wasn’t a burden, it wasn’t some divine punishment. It was a privilege. All these strangers around, they passed him and they did not even know: that he was Hans Capon of Pirkstein’s escort, his bodyguard, his page, his-

His protector. 

Henry felt a warm wave of his vital strength returning to his tired limbs—a wave of hope returning to his heart. If he fails at this, the world will end for him anyway. Either by the mercy of his father and Rattay executioner, or by his own hand: a shed somewhere or a strong enough branch of a tree and the rough embrace of a rope. There was no world in which Sir Hans was dead but Henry still walked the earth. 

This thought, however morbid, actually soothed him. 

He would either succeed—or it would all end. 

Hans couldn’t breathe. He felt like the walls and the ceiling were closing in on him, about to crush him entirely—yet cruelly prolonged his suffering, hovering just next to his sides and above his head, mocking him for his fear. Just about to turn him to gore—then backing away half an inch, sparing him for a heartbeat more. Then again. And again. He felt like he was disappearing somewhere within his own body: he could hear his heartbeat in his head, blood thumping wildly against his eardrums, and he felt hot as if a fever worse than the wrath of God descended upon him; at the same time, if he looked at his own hands extended in front of him, they felt like they belonged to someone else. 

“You can’t do this,” he whispered to himself, nearly silently, his vision marred by shaking spots of colours and shadows. “You… You can’t… I’m a… I’m…” 

His mouth was so dry he feared he would choke: his throat would just close on its own, not letting any air or sound through, and he would perish clawing at his own neck desperately like a madman. Every time he thought he might be able to take a breath, unburdened, after fighting himself for a long time, the sudden horrid echo of bells would rip through the castle and through him, and set off the panic all over again. 

“Please,” he mouthed, trying to focus his gaze on the stone wall and failing. It was all getting blurry. “Please, you… You can’t hang me.”

Perhaps it was all a dream—a nightmare brought by too much booze or loneliness or some curse. Perhaps none of it was real. Perhaps if he just persevered, it would pass; perhaps he would wake up, back in his bed in Pirkstein, sweaty and scared—but alright. Perhaps just minutes separated him from being woken up by a knock on the door: armoured glove against the wood; polished, slightly dented, the glove that Henry spent hours washing either of some poor bastard’s blood or perhaps just the remnants of herbs he spent the morning picking up in a meadow. And Hans would bolt out of bed, barely able to conceal his eagerness, and only dress his face in a feigned expression of being upset at such an early rising as he opened the door—but Henry would see right through him, ignore his whining, just barge into the room and open the window to let fresh air in. Sir Hans, let us ride out, the day is beautiful and there’s hare aplenty in the forest! Perhaps just a short moment and he would wake up from this nightmare and race Henry towards the edge of the woods, wind in their hair and sun at their backs—perhaps just a moment longer and it would all be back to how it should be. 

The bell, again, pulled him out of this hope—and pulled him back into his body, clammy and tense and so pitifully small against the crushing, cruel walls of the cell. He steadied himself against the stone, his legs barely able to support him; it was cold and wet, and smelled of mould. Hans closed his eyes; squeezed them shut: a burst of colours underneath his eyelids for a short second. If he just focused on that stone: not being crushed by it, no, but just the coldness, just the wetness of it... If he just focused hard enough, he could imagine, at least for a second, that he was somewhere else: that he was touching the rocks in the creek, the one way past the hunter lodge. The creek he would run away to as a child, when he wanted to escape his tutors or dry nurses or his uncle; the creek where he would furiously throw pebbles into to calm down, or set sticks on the surface of the water to pretend they were little boats. 

He had some ornamental, pretty boats—toys bought at the Prague market, brought to the court of his father or Hanush and gifted to him by some vassal or other, alongside painted wooden palfreys and tiny bronze knights with flimsy halberds—but he knew he would get the cane if he lost them in the forest, so he never dared take them with him. He would pretend sticks or pieces of bark were boats, then, and watch as they got carried away by water; he did not have skill enough to make anything more complex that would actually look like a boat, even when he clumsily added linden leaves to the bark to make sails.  

He was a blacksmith and not a carpenter, of course, but Hans was sure Henry could actually carve him a little wooden boat.

Or two! One for each of them; they could name them—Hans probably something mighty, recalling the valiant heroes from all the fearsome stories he loved, and Henry probably something silly, like a name of some guy from two villages over or a pun—and they could race them, running alongside the creek all the way down to where it joined the stream over Neuhof. And there, they could sneak into the stables to look at the horses; Hans could tell him all about the jennet his mother taught him how to ride on when he was barely out of his dresses—Sorelois—or the first horse he got from his uncle, or that time a monk from Sasau came to Rattay and helped at the stables to deliver a particularly capricious filly, and then they named the creature after him, and the Abbot himself wrote to Hanush to get them to stop using a consecrated name to refer to a horse. 

And from the stables, they could get out and reach that southern shepherd hut, the one that had been abandoned for years: Hans could show him the initials he carved into the ceiling beam that time he ran away from home for the whole night. Half of Rattay had to go look for him! Yes, his name, carved diligently into the wood, remained there as a badge of pride: a rite of passage!

Oh, it would be so fun, and Hen-

The bell echoed through Trosky again, and Hans felt like he was about to cry like a child. 

A lockpick to open that chest for the cook, some food for the soldier to get him to leave the kitchen—and then, whatever comes next, because something will, and he would be a step closer to getting to the Maiden. Getting to captain Thomas. Getting Hans out. 

The bell rang so many times already. Each time it did, Henry felt his heart skip a beat and a horrid shiver crawl up his neck; he had to stop himself from thinking about Hans in that small, musty cell. He walked out, sun in his eyes, from the courtyard down to the gallows—perhaps someone there would know something useful, either a way into the dungeons or into the tower, or some-

The gallows. 

Henry’s vision went to black for a short second—the empty, freezing cold overcoming his body again. But then he swallowed, hard, and gritted his teeth and clenched his fists; dug his fingernail into that silver halfmoon scar on his palm, and tried to steady his breathing. 

He would either succeed—or it would all end. It rattled in his head like a prayer. 

If he dies, I die with him. 

If he lives, I live. 

We live. 

Walking down and trying his best not to look to his left, Henry heard one of the hired hands swear under his breath: a long, nasty chain of curses, followed by spitting on the ground in frustration. He was trying to cut through a thick piece of wood with a saw that must have remembered the reign of King Ottokar. 

“God be with you, good man,” Henry started, walking up to the hired hand. “You seem to be in trouble, anything I can help you with?”

“Well, shit, if you’re a miracle worker, maybe,” the man whined, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Or a carpenter?”

“No, not a carpenter,” he shook his head, “blacksmithing’s more my trade.”

“Huh,” the man looked at him, shielding his eyes from the sun. “That can actually be useful.”

“Well then, here I am,” Henry tried to smile to appear friendly but it only came out like a grimace. 

“I got the job of fixing up this here scaffold… But the whole thing is fucked.” The man spat on the ground again, looking at the wooden construction as if it wronged him, personally and on purpose. 

“The saw, it doesn’t do much, does it?”

“Does fuck all, let me tell you. I need a good carpenter’s axe… And there’s a broadaxe in the shed but it’s blunt as a file.” The man shook his head again. “Of course Osina didn’t find the time all damn year to hone the thing.”

“I could help you with that,” Henry offered. A hired hand working there would most likely know where he could get lockpicks—or how he could sneak into the Maiden.

“You could? Well,” the man’s face lit up, “that’d be great. Go and get it from the shed, sharpen it and bring it here to me, eh?”

“Sure thing.”

Henry walked to the shed, feeling the cautious gaze of women sitting on a bench to his right on his back; he grabbed the axe, truly blunt and somewhat misshapen, and took it to the grinding wheel. And as he put it against the stone, knowing exactly how to angle it and how much pressure to apply, for a second he forgot about the miserable, horrid reality of his current situation. The sound of the steel against the wheel soothed his nerves—the sparks distracted him from thinking about anything else. Then, when he felt it was sharp enough and brought it to his eye level to inspect it—the axe catching the rays of the sun just right—he looked past the blade, across the yard.

The gallows.

Feeling his chest tighten, he walked back to the hired hand.

“There you go,” he muttered, handing him the axe.

“Sharp as a skinning knife! Nice,” the man patted him on the shoulder. “Without your help, the scaffold could well collapse under that poacher as he swings. And nobody wants that!”

Henry stood there, as if turned into a pillar of salt. The sun was blinding him but he didn’t even have strength enough to shield his eyes from it.

“Does that… Does that even matter,” Henry managed to cough out through a tightened throat, trying to keep up appearances, “how he dies? Death is death, isn’t it?”

“Shit, certainly not! For one thing, it would be a disgrace, because someone would have to finish him off,” the man tutted, shaking his head again, “and no one wants to dirty their hands like that.”

“Right,” Henry’s voice could as well belong to someone else, it sounded so foreign. 

“And more importantly, I’d have to rebuild the damned thing all over again! You can’t imagine how that would spoil my day.”

“I think I can, actually.”

"Also, a hanged man needs to stay there, swinging, for as long as Lord Von Bergow allows. For the birds and shit to pick him apart, and for all the people in need to snatch whatever part of him they know will help them. A fingerbone here, a tuft of hair there..."

"I don't-" Henry felt his voice drop so low he could barely get the words out. "I don't need to hear that. It's all stupid superstition, is it not?"

"Superstition? Clearly you've never tried an artifact like that," the hired hand looked at him, grimacing. "Some things have no other solution. My grandfather, the only reason he even got groschen enough to set any dowry aside for my mother, was thanks to the shirt from a hangman. We used to use that rag to wipe the troughs for the cattle, and our cows gave the most milk in the whole village."

"Sure," Henry replied, swallowing hard. He did not want to talk about that; he did not want to think about it. Hans' body, left there, swinging, for the crows and village imbeciles...

“Anyway, thanks. I can’t afford to fuck things up today… The chamberlain is as tetchy as the devil.”

“Isn’t he always?” Henry asked, hoping to get at least something useful out of it all. Anything. 

“Yeah,” the hired hand spat again, “but even more so today. Anna the laundress said he’s got a bellyache. Everyone’s avoiding him like the plague.”

“Aha…”

Henry felt dizzy. He could still feel the weight of the axe in his hands. 

“You don’t mind building a scaffold to hang an innocent man?” he asked suddenly, before he could bite his own tongue. The hired hand looked at him, baffled.

“Honestly? No. It’s not my thing to decide, it’s all up to the lords. I just do my job.”

“Right.”

“You’ll sleep better if you stop worrying about things out of your grasp, you know.”

“Mhm,” Henry bit his tongue this time, and turned around on his heel. 

As he walked towards the kitchens to look for the chamberlain, his heart in his throat, the bell echoed out again. 

What did you do, boy? Echoed in his mind in a voice that could have been Martin’s—could have been Radzig’s—in tandem with the bells.

Sharpened the axe to build the scaffold your lord will swing from today?

With your own hands? 

What have you done, boy?

At some point, there was a knock at the door—and then they opened, slowly, with a haunting creak, and Hans felt his heart crawl up his throat when he realised the guards brought a priest in. He was just thinking about that one particularly boring mass he had to attend before Easter—Hanush was pestering him how his subjects should see him in church more often—and how it would have been so entertaining if he could have had Henry there, somewhere in the rows with the common people yet still close enough to the lords that they could sneakily make faces at each other during the sermon. At some point, the priest stuttered and mispronounced a word—Canaanites—so bad he basically said cunt. He could see, in his imagination, Henry’s neck turn bright red right above his collar as he tried to keep laughter in. 

“Father, wait a moment,” one of the guards said, pulling him abruptly out of his train of thought, and then the tone of his voice changed completely when he turned to address Hans, “and you, disrobe. Put this on.”

He threw a rough shirt and patched up hose his way, and they landed on the floor among the dust and straw. 

“What?” Hans asked, his throat sore in a sharp, stinging way, as if he had heartburn for the past five hours. 

“You ever seen a poacher swing in the courtyard with some fancy coat on?”

Hans swallowed and reached for the musty clothes. He looked up at the guards briefly, checking if they decide to leave or turn around. The priest turned around but the guards did not. 

“Actually, wouldn’t that be sort of,” the second guard started, “po…pua...like, drive the point harder? You know, like you got all this money by poaching, and now you get to swing in it?”

“Pua what?”

“Poignant,” Hans and priest said at the same time.

“Thank you, father,” the guard said, “and you, shut the fuck up and start undressing or you’ll swing with a black eye, too.”

Hans was hoping the priest would say something—ask them to leave or turn around or take his side in some way at least. It didn’t happen. He gritted his teeth and unbuttoned his coat, taking it off; then, he took off his shirt and put on the one brought by the guards: it was incredibly unpleasant to touch, and he was sure it was purposeful. The guard was watching him closely, shamelessly letting his eyes wander all around Hans’ chest and thighs. 

“Give that here,” the guard stepped closer and took the clothes he just took off, “and give me your hands.” He was holding a piece of thick rope. “Can’t have you swing at the father here or do something stupid.”

“Any valuables on you?” the second guard asked as the first one was binding Hans’ hands. He was being unnecessarily rough; the priest remained with his back turned to them throughout the whole exchange. 

“No.”

“Not hiding any rings or something?”

“No.”

“Well, you’ll cough them up when you swing anyway,” the guard laughed crudely, “from one end or the other, if you know what I mean.”

The priest shook his head in meek disapproval—but did not say anything. Hans suddenly felt an overwhelmingly non-Christian wave of hatred toward the man. 

“Wish he wasn’t so skinny,” the first guard muttered in a hushed voice. “Not much fat there.”

“Well,” the second one shrugged, “people will have to be satisfied with what they get. The executioner’s been so greedy lately he’ll charge them something crazy even for a sliver of it anyway.”

Hans felt his spine turn to stone. 

“Did you hear he charged the tailor’s wife thirty groschen for a skin strap last time, from that cattle thief? Like an inch wide, too.”

“Thirty groschen? And she paid that?”

“Aye, she was with child, and she already lost two. Didn’t want to leave anything to chance.”

“Still, thirty groschen…”

“And it didn't even work, given that the tailor’s been at the tavern every single damn day lately, crying and shit.”

“Maybe it was too thin?”

“I reckon it wasn’t even from the hangman! The executioner probably cut it off from his own belt,” the guard laughed so hard some phlegm dislodged in his throat. “No wonder it didn’t work!”

The second guard laughed as well, while still shaking his head at the price. It was at that moment that the priest, red in the face, turned around.

“God have mercy on your souls! How dare you speak of such things!” he yelled, and it made Hans wince.

“F-father…”

“Such beliefs are an offence in the eyes of the Church!” The priest continued his shouting. “And a sin! A grave one, at that! Witchcraft!”

The guards looked at each other, uncomfortable and confused. 

“Aye, aye… Disgraceful, that,” one of them coughed out. 

“We are very much against it,” the second one added, shaking his head. “We were just, talking, like. Apologies, father.”

The priest huffed and gestured at them with both hands, shooing them out of the cell. 

“Come back in a couple of minutes,” he said, turning away from them. “I will call for you.”

“Aye,” the guards nodded and left, taking Hans’ clothes with them. 

So this made you intervene, Hans thought bitterly. You absolute cunt. 

“Now, boy,” the priest said, walking up to him; Hans took a step back, reflexively. “Do you want to confess your sins? The time is near that you will meet your merciful father in Heaven.”

“How merciful can he be?” Hans asked, bitterly.

“Don’t blaspheme, son. You are not in any position to.”

Hans really fucking wished the priest would stop calling him boy and son. Still, he recognised it would be his last confession—last rites. He really was in no position to sneer at that. 

“Yes, father,” he said, through gritted teeth, “let me confess my sins.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’ve…” Hans inhaled, trying to steady his breathing. The walls kept closing in. “I’ve used the Lord’s name in vain, many times. I’ve coveted my neighbours’ wives and daughters. Mothers in law, too. I missed mass because I was drunk. Many times.”

“Mhm,” the priest clasped his hands together and closed his eyes in an infuriating mimicry of contemplation. 

“I wished death upon my enemies, even though they were Christians, too,” Hans kept saying, feeling as if his body was suddenly weighed down with stones. “I’ve spilled Christian blood, fighting for my life.”

“Go on, son.”

“I’ve had hateful thoughts about others, including priests. And I’ve had sinful thoughts about others, too, including nuns.”

The priest, eyes still closed, grimaced slightly against his own better judgement. 

“But worst of all,” Hans felt strange bitterness on his tongue, and he wondered if it was venom, “I fucked everything so bad, so egregiously, that I let down my only surviving relative, my uncle, the Lord of Leipa, which in turn might cost many innocent people their lives. Me, first and foremost, as I will hang for poaching even though I come from a long, noble line. But also many people who will be caught in a war that could have been stopped.”

“Son-”

“And! I most likely got someone else killed, too,” he heard his voice crack but it did not feel like it belonged to him at all, “someone good and honourable and loyal, who did not deserve to meet me on his path, not at all.”

“How did you get that person… Killed? Son?”

“By fucking it all up,” Hans was getting annoyed. Did the priest even listen to him? “I will hang and he will get blamed for it, somehow, I can feel it in my wretched bones. Even if they don’t punish him… He will punish himself. He will think it’s his fault. I ruined his life.”

“This, I don’t think, can count as a sin, son. If-”

“Will God not condemn me, that I ruined the life of a good man?”

“If,” the priest squeezed his eyes a little bit more, furrowing his brows, “the man… Commits what you fear he might… Then that is his own cardinal sin, his own offence against God. And the worst one, as he will be refused Heaven. That sin is not on your conscience, son.”

Hans felt a horrid wave run through him: a vile, visceral hatred. The guards were correct to bind him; if his hands were free, he would have added to his long list of sins by choking the last fucking breath out of the priest right there and then.  

“I’ve lied and cursed, and I’ve-” Hans felt his throat tighten. “I don’t recall anything more, father.”

“Alright,” the priest muttered, and started reciting Latin verses under his breath. Hans could swear some of them were incorrectly pronounced. “God merciful forgives you your sins, son. I absolve you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, by the power of Christ’s Passion.”

“Amen,” Hans heard himself say. It was a distant echo. 

“Now, let me say a prayer for your soul and commend it to our Father in Heaven.”

Hans did not hear a word the priest said. All he could think of was that small shepherd's hut in Neuhof: how he would give Henry his dagger, touching his hand just a second too long, and, laughing, ask him to carve his name in that wooden beam, too, right next to his. 

The captain’s skin was still ungodly hot to the touch when Henry wrapped his arm around him and hauled him down the narrow stairs of the Trosky tower; still, he knew the fever tonic would work soon, and hopefully help drag the man’s soul from the border of death back to the land of the living. 

Another bell rang out, scaring away the birds huddled together on the beams and fences. Henry did not allow himself to think about anything. Anything at all. He kept his head and his heart empty like a robbed crypt—he knew he’d go mad otherwise. Mad with fear, and worry, and guilt. Mad with the knowledge it was all his fault. 

“I urge you all to be vigilant,” echoed in the chamberlain’s voice across the yard, in tandem with the bells, “these days, we have all sorts of vagabonds, drifters, outlaws and bandits roaming the country!”

Henry felt a ripple of horrid pain go through his shoulder as the captain relied on it for support. He could see, from afar, a rabble of people gathered by the gallows.

“And we have one of those vermin here today!” The Chamberlain was animated; too excited. “A fellow called Hans who is clearly not right in the head!”

Henry felt a wave of rage so overwhelming that his vision turned to red; he had to force himself to keep going. All he wanted to do was to drive a sword right through the chamberlain’s eye socket: feel his brains squelch beneath the fingers of his armoured glove, right at the back of his head.

“A dangerous madman! A brawler! And a thug!”

The crowd murmured with disdain.

“And worst of it all… A poacher!”

Henry was so close; so, so close. The feverish captain muttered something under his breath, incomprehensible. Still, he was their last hope—their only hope. Henry’s only hope. 

“And so… For the damages he caused to our dear Lord Otto Von Bergow, he had been sentenced! To be hanged by the neck until dead!”

Henry could swear he heard the rope being tightened around Hans’ neck.

He thought he was ready—the image of Hans, dead, swinging, filling his mind for the past however many hours, followed by the images of himself, dead as well—yet he wasn’t. He saw him from afar: standing on the stump the guards rolled under his feet, the rough noose around his neck. His eyes, bright and holy like the skies in the middle of June, clouded by tears and mortal fear. 

His lord—his Hans—framed by the cruel, looming grasp of the gallows. 

Everything in Henry just wanted to howl. Lash out, in righteous fury, at the Chamberlain—tear apart the executioner like a wolf tearing out the throat of another. Set fire to each man and woman watching this spectacle, watch them melt like candles in the flames. Set the whole of Trosky on fire—bathe it in blood, guilty or innocent, it did not matter.

His lord—his Hans—with a noose around his throat. 

“Stop!” he yelled, his voice rough and booming as if it was God himself opening the skies to condemn the sinners gathered in the yard. The crowd gasped. 

“You can’t execute this man! He’s a noble!” Henry’s throat felt as if it was on fire. Hans’ head turned to him, just slightly, his eyes wide in disbelief— in sudden hope. “Captain Thomas here will testify that we’re messengers from Rattay!”

Thomas’ sister held onto his arm like a holy relic; her eyes were filled with fury, too. And hope. 

“What is this nonsense, for Christ’s sake?” the chamberlain shouted, boiling. 

“It’s true!” Hans called out, voice shaky and desperate. “”I am Sir Hans Capon, of Pirkstein! Lord of Rattay! Heir to the Lords of Leipa!”

“Deal with it, for God’s sake!”

But the guards looked at each other, hesitant—and even that brief second, born out of their loyalty to the Captain, was enough.

“But Sir… The captain…”

“Captain Thomas has a fever! He’s clearly delirious!” The chamberlain raved. “Seize them, immediately!”

He had no way to know that the guards, in that very moment, lost every ounce of respect that they were expected to hold for him; he had no way to know that in a couple of days, when they would march against Nebakov, these same guards would purposefully look the other way as the bolts from enemies’ crossbows tore through his very flesh. 

“You can’t do this! I’m a nobleman, do you hear?! A noble!” Hans cried out. 

“Get your hands off me!” Henry barked as one of the guards pulled him away from Captain Thomas. Another guard had to join just to overpower him. 

The chamberlain waved his hand at the executioner; a final gesture, the most damning order.

For Henry, everything stopped: he no longer heard the murmurs of the crowd, nor the panic of birds. The skies could have fallen on his head and he would not know it. His eyes caught Hans’ for a brief second—and all he could think about was gratitude. 

Bathed in fear and bile, and the understanding he himself would swing soon, as well: gratitude.

Profound, deep gratitude that he was allowed to fight for his lord—that he was allowed to give his life for Hans, even if he failed him. Looking at the rope around his neck—the neck he saved so many times, the neck that he, good God, thought about kissing in deepest devotion so many times—made him realise that as much as his life belonged to his lord, his lord’s life belonged to him. 

Against every enemy and every shadow in the night, the hound would protect his master until his own last breath.

Through howling and bloodied teeth, the hound would give his life for his lord. 

Against all odds—against the fatal, unfortunate stars—the hound would remain at his lord’s holy side. Even as he swings from the gallows. 

“You can’t do this!” he yelled out, feeling blood on his tongue; the final attempt to beg the fates for a different outcome. 

And the fates—to his absolute surprise, against all odds— listened.  

Henry, the boy from a village that was no more, born under an unlucky star, was suddenly granted luck. Salvation. Redemption. Hope. A horn’s faraway cry rang out through the yard.

The soldiers stationed at the gate to Trosky opened its heavy, wooden wings frantically—the gawkers ran to the sides, escaping being trampled by Von Bergow’s horse—and the executioner froze. 

“What the hell is going on?!”

As the executioner froze, so did the chamberlain, and the crowd—and then the noose was taken off, and Hans was free. 

The birds over Trosky returned, calmed. 

They sang.

Henry escaped the guards—shocked by their lord’s sudden return—and ran to the gallows; he ran in greater fever than back at Skalitz. Nothing else in that godforsaken world mattered at that moment: only his lord. 

“Hans,” was the only thing on his lips, frantic, shaken. 

And his lord stood on the gallows, his eyes red and his hands shaking: and looked down on him with such emotion—such gratitude and such softness—that Henry feared his heart would break. More beautiful than any icon in any church—than any trembling dawn over any forest. 

“Hal,” Hans whispered, chuckling in a daze under his breath, as he made his way down the steps of the gallows. 

Before the guards seized them—by Von Bergow’s order—Henry’s hand found Hans’ for the briefest of seconds. A brush of fingers against each other, both shaking; half a heartbeat of respite. 

The only prayer that could ever matter.

Chapter Text

Henry slowly made his way up to the wooden stairs of the inner courtyard at Trosky. Hans was already waiting at the top, leaning against the balustrade; he had the chance, at last, to change into the sort of clothes he would usually wear, and the level of comfort it brought him was visible in each small movement of his body. He looked down at Henry walking up and smiled, nodding his head in greeting.

Henry had to focus not to stare too much. Something about this reminded him about being back at Rattay—which now felt so distant as if it happened to someone else—and the time he rode into Pirkstein, tired and in need of sleep after another campaign with Sir Kuno. He was so focused on just getting back to his bed that he did not notice Hans walking down the stairs: he did not see him but, to his absolute surprise, he heard him. Hey! Henry’s here! There was so much joy in his voice that it shook Henry to the core; he felt his heart flutter in his chest long after he lied down, and he told himself the reason why he couldn’t fall asleep was because he was too exhausted—but that wasn’t true at all. 

“Henry!” Hans exclaimed once he made it to the top of the stairs. “Von Bergow will receive us soon.”

“Aye,” Henry walked up to him and leaned against the railing a pace or two away from where Hans was standing. “Can’t wait to have that done and over with.”

“Mhm, I’m looking forward to discussing the whole Chamberlain conundrum.”

“Please, Sir Hans,” he started, turning towards him, “let’s try to be… Diplomatic about it.”

“Diplomatic?” The young lord’s voice rose both in tone and volume; a very clear sign he had to stop himself from reacting even more explosively. “He nearly got me executed.”

Henry winced, physically, at that word alone—and looked away for a second, contemplating how to approach the subject and convince Hans to be reasonable. Because of this, he didn’t see Hans’ mouth falling agape for the briefest of seconds as he noticed that reflexive tremor running through Henry. He didn’t notice him shuffling, as inconspicuously as he could, just a half-step closer to him, either.

“Trust me,” Henry simply said after a moment of silence, “I know. Whatever you’re feeling, trust me, I can understand it.”

“Can you, though? You weren’t the one with the noose around your neck,” Hans replied, crossing his arms. He instantly wished he bit his tongue. 

“Not yet, no,” Henry shrugged. He regretted saying it immediately, too, but it was too late.

Hans did not say anything—mostly out of fear his voice would break if he did. They both just stood there for a moment, silent. 

“They’ve, uh,” Henry started, changing the subject, “let me change into my clothes, finally, but they still did not return the rest of my stuff.”

“I’m sure they will in a moment,” Hans replied, slightly absent-mindedly. He was rubbing his neck with his left hand, looking at the courtyard below with an unfocused gaze. 

“Hate not having any weapons on me,” Henry continued. “Funny to think that a couple of months ago I barely even knew which end to hold the sword from.”

“Eh, well,” Hans kept his head facing forwards, still looking down at the yard, but there was a smile in the corner of his eyes betraying what he was about to say next, “when we met, your knowledge was still limited to that lone fact.”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” Henry nodded sagely, “and it was all it took to beat you.”

Hans snorted. 

“Sir,” Henry added, grinning. 

“Beginner’s luck, my dear Henry, beginner’s luck.”

“And then, two weeks later, was that beginner’s luck as well?”

Hans felt warmth crawl up his neck; he was hoping with all his might no blush could be visible. That damned second duel, just before Henry left for Ledetchko, days before he helped him woo Karolina... The memory of Henry’s hand in the crook of his neck, steadying him, and his intense gaze as he held him, was still overwhelmingly alive in his mind. The embarrassment at what it made him feel back then—that day, and the evening that followed, when he was alone in his chamber—was much stronger than the embarrassment at having lost the fight. 

“Well, I was love-struck back then,” Hans said, still stubbornly looking ahead. “And a man in love can be forgiven for being distracted.” 

“Ah, I see, I see,” Henry chuckled under his breath, “Then I have beginner’s luck to thank for the first duel I beat you at, and the butcher’s daughter for the second?”

“Mhm,” Hans replied, very quickly, and then cleared his throat. “Jesus, wish Sir Otto could hurry up and receive us already.”

“Yeah,” Henry nodded, stretching his arms lazily. He did not want to let it show how exhausted he was; didn’t want to show how much hauling the captain to the gallows tired him and messed with his barely healed shoulder. He himself was barely aware of the full extent of his exhaustion—the relief that Hans was alright and safe still rushed through his veins, sweeter than any wine, shielding him from being hit with the full burden of the piled up tiredness. 

Henry looked at the wooden floor beneath him, and how the rays of sun and shadows played on the planks; Trosky was a truly magnificent castle and the day really was beautiful. It was a charming combination, one he really hoped he would get to enjoy after the meeting with Von Bergow—maybe go for a ride, or simply walk to that bench underneath the great oak, sit there, reading, soaking up the sun. 

He watched the shadow of a bird flying overhead dance on the floor right next to him, by the wooden beam. It was at that moment that he realised, slightly baffled, that Hans was now standing much closer than a couple of minutes ago. Henry was convinced he himself didn’t move; yet where before the distance between them was at least two paces, now their shoulders were nearly touching. He raised his head to look at Hans—and the door behind them opened.

“Ahem…” Chamberlain's voice was sour, “You may enter. His Lordship is expecting you.”

They both pushed themselves off the wooden balustrade and turned towards the doors, still kept open by the Chamberlain. They were so busy exchanging looks with each other—mostly simply silently saying finally —that they did not notice the face that the chamberlain made, looking at them. He was trying his best to be polite, especially after that whole nearly-hanged-a-noble fiasco, but it was difficult: he was quite honestly outraged at how rude Capon’s escort was. Unceremoniously entering Von Bergow’s chamber first and only then letting his lord in! Outrageous! 

Chamberlain had no way of knowing that, even if they were being received by an ally, and even if he himself did not as much as have a weapon on him, Henry would always walk into an unknown place first. 

Always check the corner, check the far end of the room, scan the windows and the person they were about to talk to. Only then he would let Hans in front of him—to do the talking, negotiating, gossiping or boozing—yet always stay no more than a pace behind. Always ready. Hand hovering over the hilt of his sword—or, as in that moment at Trosky, simply by his belt, ready to kill with his bare hands if need be. 

If to the rest of the world that seemed rude, well, Henry did not care.

It was really hot in the chambers of the Trosky castle: the fireplaces were blazing even though the day was very warm. It was one of these fireplaces that Henry was busy focusing on, watching the flames as if they were the most interesting thing in the world—all to escape the awkwardness of the exchange happening right next to his side. 

Hans was really furious—whatever diplomacy he tried to keep up while speaking to Von Bergow disappeared in a blink of an eye the second they left the chamber. Speaking to the chamberlain now, he was decidedly rude.

“Henry,” Hans said suddenly, and Henry looked up from the fire, “once you’re done with that annoying fool, get your horse and we’ll meet at the gate.”

Then, Hans stormed off, without looking at him or the chamberlain. 

On one hand, Henry wanted to be a little bit upset at the fact that it wasn’t an invitation but an order. He fell out of being used to being ordered around for the past couple of weeks—the lack of equality between them still a thorn in his side, bitter. On the other, however, it still meant he would get to see Hans in a moment and maybe even ride out together—there was no shame in dutifully obeying an order that felt good, after all, was there?

“It seems Lord Capon will not be requiring my services any more today,” the chamberlain muttered, bitterly, while leading him through the castle grounds. 

“Hm, don’t be surprised,” Henry answered, “my lord doesn’t take kindly to those who insist on putting a rope round his neck.”

There was no shame in how good the words my lord felt on his tongue, was there?

“I understand,” the chamberlain was doing his best to remain civil, “I expect no one does.”

Henry did not say anything: his mind escaped somewhere else, for a second. A surprising wave of clarity washed over him.

My lord did feel good on his tongue, and shamelessly so. But it was not the lord part of that short phrase that caused it. 

Henry breathed in a bit deeper.

This gratitude—this duty—it became a part of him not because Hans was a noble; it had nothing to do with the fact that he was the future lord of Rattay, or a liege lord of the domain Henry became a part of since Skalitz burned down and Sir Radzig had to flee with his regiment. It wasn't some grand natural order that Henry suddenly agreed to accept into his heart; that abyss supposedly put between them by God himself was still a bitter fact he had no intention of agreeing with. 

Henry’s heart was filled with duty and devotion not because Hans was a noble—but because he was Hans.

His Hans.

He felt his cheeks get warm. It felt arrogant and brazen and ridiculous to even think that. And yet.

“In any case, we’d have it a lot easier, your lord and I, if his behaviour weren’t so redolent of a bandit,” Ulrich added. “Nevertheless. Welcome to Trosky! The finest and biggest castle you shall ever see.”

Henry got pulled out of his thoughts by the petty emphasis the chamberlain put on the word you. As if a simpleton like him would never get to see anything more impressive.

Well, you old goat, Henry thought, you don’t know shit. We will see half the world, my lord and I, and castles much more beautiful than this.

And we'll go places where no one will know who's the lord and who's the page, and no one will care.

“I’m sure,” he said out loud instead. 

“Rumour has it that the castle was built on the jaws of hell, and that we’re sometimes plagued by demons here. But don’t believe a word of it! It’s just idle talk to excuse the servants’ laziness and incompetence.“

“I’m sure,” Henry repeated. 

He was really glad once the small tour of the castle ended, and he was left alone—well, with Mutt—by the shed he was allowed to sleep in. He quickly opened the chest with his belongings, making sure everything was there; he didn’t have time to dry the eyebright he gathered before the wedding, and so he had to throw it out, mouldy. Then, Henry equipped his riding armour and his weapons, finally feeling much more like himself. The sounds of the smithy right outside his room were soothing, too. 

Humming a tune under his breath, Henry turned towards the stables to get Pebbles—at last—and some tack that Von Bergow apparently gifted him. It was a much welcome gift given the equipment poor Pebbles had to put up with for the past week or more; Henry quite honestly worried she would forget how a proper saddle and caparison felt, and then give him trouble once he got her some. 

Walking to the gate with the reins in his hand and Pebbles trotting behind him, Henry could not help himself and kept on humming; it felt as if all the worries of the world peeled off and disappeared. It was a beautiful day, he had his dog and his horse and his weapons, and Hans was alright. What more could he ever need? The sun was shining, too, and his heart was light with the newly found understanding why exactly he was ready to give his life for Capon.

“Skákal pes přes oves, přes zelenou louku,” Henry sang under his breath, feeling his face hurt from trying not to smile widely like a madman, “šel za ním myslivec, péro na klobouku...”

For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t scared. For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t bitter. The realisation from the gallows kept echoing out in his head: as much as his life belonged to his lord, his lord’s life belonged to him. It was a feeling warmer than that of the sun on his skin, sweeter than a kiss—more precious than any pile of silver or gold.

Perhaps, in this world, with its machinations and hierarchies, he was just a peasant; perhaps he was just a hound. But he knew very well whose hands held his leash—just as he knew, intimately and decidedly, that the leash had two ends. As much as he was held by it—that beloved hand held it even closer, and would not let go. 

“Skákal pes přes oves, přes zelenou louku!” Henry sang again, a bit louder; he couldn’t remember the rest of the song. He had to focus on trying not to step on Mutt who, very excitedly, kept running right at his legs each time he took a step forward. “You silly doggy, you want me and Pebbles to trample you? Shoo!”

Mutt barked joyfully and ran ahead. A man passing them smiled at the sight. 

Henry kept walking and singing to himself, and he could swear his horse adjusted the rhythm of her hooves to fit the melody. Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice from afar.

“God almighty, you beast!” Hans shouted, trying to sound outraged and not overjoyed. “Get off me, you’re getting mud all over me!”

Henry laughed to himself and hurried Pebbles towards the Trosky gate. 

“Henry!” Hans shouted, even louder. “Get your hellish hound off me!”

It was at that moment that Henry realised that Mutt hadn’t seen Hans since the ambush at the pond; and the dog was very, very adamant to make up for all that lost time. He was jumping wildly in circles around Hans, from time to time leaping right at him: leaving, indeed, muddy paw prints on his thighs and the front of his coat. Hans kept waving his arms around to stop him, and backing away, but the dog was so stubborn and so overjoyed there was no way to escape him. 

“Henry!” Hans pleaded again, looking at him with both desperation and urgency in his eyes. Still, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep a straight face—there was laughter in the corner of his eyes. 

“Mutt! Heel!” Henry yelled, at last, and Mutt barked one final time—to make sure it was clear the decision to back off was his own—and ran back to Henry, tongue out and tail a-wagging. 

“I’m making you launder this tonight,” Hans said, shaking his head at the mud on his clothes. “The gall of this beast!”

“He was just happy to see you, Sir Hans,” Henry said, closing the final bit of distance between them. “And no, I am not laundering your hose, my lord, unless that is an order coming directly from Sir Hanush.”

Hans snorted in laughter, still trying to pretend to be outraged. 

“Wouldn’t that be something,” he teased, trying to get some of the mud out. “Ah, anyway, glad you’re here, Henry.”

“So am I.”

Hans took a deep breath.

“I needed to catch a breath of fresh air. I’ve had it up to here with that chamberlain Stuffenberg, or whatever the bastard’s name is.”

“Ah, fuck him,” Henry shrugged, and smiled at the face Hans made. “We’re here on account of Von Bergow. I have a feeling he won’t be giving him a pat on the back either, for the way he treated us.”

“I suppose you’re right,” the young lord replied, his hand absent-mindedly making its way up to his collar. “But! I won’t be fucking humiliated! A jumped-up tosser like that isn’t going to get high-handed with the Lord of Pirkstein!”

“I agree,” Henry nodded, “Although… The Lord of Pirkstein can also act pretty haughty at times.”

He observed Hans’ face closely: his brows unfurrowed, lips a bit downturned; a brief shadow of regret passing through his bright eyes.

“Look…” Hans swallowed and inhaled deeply. “I know I… I behaved like an idiot, but…”

A pause. Hans’ eyes found his; hesitant, remorseful, unsure what to say next. He knew that Henry accepted his apology in the cell because he felt like he had to, and he really desperately wanted to make it real this time. 

Henry wanted to be angry, still; tried to find all that rage and hurt within himself. But, good God—the weather was so beautiful. It would be such a shame to cast any sadness over it. And the leash, given into willingly, had two ends after all; Hans was just as bound to him, and just as willingly. Henry had never felt that confident when it came to his lord and all that he himself felt; all that he himself was. It was that confidence, perhaps—and that sunny day, and those muddy paw prints, and Pebbles’ rhythmic trotting, and the smell of grass, and the smile in the corners of Hans’ eyes—that filled his heart enough to allow his lips to utter something he did not expect himself to ever say. 

“Happens to the best of us,” he said, immediately noticing how Hans’ shoulders relaxed, instantly. “But you can rely on me.”

Hans looked at him, quiet.

“Always,” Henry added, not looking away from Hans even for a second. He held his gaze, driving the point even more with his eyes than he did with his words or tone. He noticed Hans’ chest rise in a sudden, shaky inhale—but just the one, and banished quickly. 

“We had a disagreement, that’s all. Who doesn’t, sometimes?” Henry allowed his eyes to soften, and a smile to creep up on his face. “You’re the closest friend I have left.”

Hans’ eyes widened, for half a heartbeat, in badly reigned in surprise. Then, he smiled, his cheeks slightly coloured pink.

“Thank you, Henry… I… I really appreciate it.” His voice was soft. Relieved. 

Henry did not look away, still holding his gaze. The pink got a bit more intense.

Well, Henry thought, it must be the sunlight, angled just so, playing tricks. 

“I’m glad to have you as my page,” Hans cleared his throat. “You know, Hanush assigned you to me as a kind of punishment…”

Henry grinned. For a second he wanted to say something about trotting behind him like a good dog, but he stopped himself.

“But now…” the young lord’s face lit up with a kind smile, allowing himself just a moment of utter transparency. “I wouldn’t want anyone else by my side.”

As much as my life belongs to you, Henry thought, yours belongs to me. 

“You have my word as a nobleman,” Hans added, as if it was needed. 

“And you have my word as a blacksmith,” he replied, putting his hand over his heart. “That I will stand by you, even if it isn’t always easy going.”

He really had to force himself to ignore how hard and wild that heart of his was beating underneath his palm.

“Hmm! Then your word must be as firm as steel!” Hans exclaimed. “But, I take my promises seriously too. And since I made a promise to Bozhena, we have to repay our debt.”

“Don’t worry about it. I took care of it already, on account of both of us.”

“You… You did?” Hans raised an eyebrow at him. “My word, Henry, you are a true bellator! Only half by birth, but your heart is filled with blue blood!”

It really isn’t, Henry thought. 

“Thanks, Hans,” he said instead, sending him a grateful smile. 

“Well! It’s high time we set out, so we can get back before nightfall!” Hans exclaimed, pushing himself off the stone wall he was leaning back against. “Carpe diem!”

“I’m ready.”

“Let’s mount up, then!”

Hans turned to his horse—a beautiful, noble mount—and quickly, gracefully got into the saddle. Henry felt a sudden sting somewhere in his heart at the sight: how easy it was for Hans to get on a horse, with such grace and such speed, and how quickly each one of them always gave into his control. It must have been jealousy, given Henry still could sometimes take way too long to get into the saddle without spooking the mount, and got bucked off more times than he’d ever admit to. Henry could charm the most capricious horse—like Lady Zora’s dappled gray, or the one for Lady Stephanie’s cousin that he had to sing to the whole way to Talmberg—yet the most ordinary, well behaved horses would sometimes oppose him stubbornly. 

Not to mention the occasional branch. 

But looking at Hans, whose movements in the saddle were so graceful and fluid, made to look effortless despite the incredible skill required, it all made his heart beat a little bit faster. Unless it wasn’t jealousy, but-

“Ah,” Hans interrupted his thread of thought, “it’s nice to be out under the open sky. I was feeling really cramped in those gloomy corridors up there.”

“Aye,” Henry replied, squeezing Pebbles' sides to get her to trot right after Hans’ horse.

“But! I can’t deny this is a real fucking castle!” Hans’ voice was bright and joyful. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. Pirkstein is just a little fortress in comparison!”

Some hired hand making his way up carrying sacks of charcoal looked at Hans’ horse and raised his eyebrows, impressed.

“Von Bergow certainly knows how to make an impression,” the young lord continued, having his body move in perfect rhythm in the saddle, effortless and poised. 

“That’s true. Von Bergow must be loaded.”

“Ha, I expect the office of the Royal Chamberlain is a nice earner,” Hans said, and Henry could not take his eyes off his back. “Unless he shits gold ingots.”

They heard the hired hand, now a couple of paces behind them, laugh. 

Henry managed to take his eyes off Hans’ back just as they started nearing the outer gate—riding right past the gallows. For a second he wanted to hurry Pebbles up and overtake Hans by just the stride enough to block the view, but he hesitated, and then it was too late. Perhaps it was better to face things, sometimes, even if they hurt. There was a moment of tense silence as they rode by.

“Fuck,” Hans said, suddenly, voice dropping. “This place makes me feel queasy.”

Henry didn’t know what to say even though he really, really wanted to say something. 

“Memento mori,” the young lord added, tone grim. “I could have croaked here… And gone off to join my old man in eternity, God rest his soul.”

The guards by the gate, hearing Hans’ voice, pulled their helmets a bit further over their eyes, suddenly incredibly interested in literally everything else but the two riders. 

“And he’d ask me,” Hans continued, “so, son, what great deeds have you achieved in life? And I’d have to tell him, well, Pa, I fucked everything up royally, and then they hanged me for poaching!” Hans groaned. “Christ on a stick!”

There were so many things Henry wanted to say—but he did not want to interrupt. That, and he really didn’t know how to say them coherently and in a way that would make Capon believe him. He remembered, feeling a really bitter aftertaste in his mouth, that he very brazenly yelled at him in the stocks, telling him no one would be ever proud of him. 

He leaned in the saddle over to the side slightly and spat into the grass, hoping Hans didn’t notice. 

“I can’t have that…” Hans continued, undeterred by Henry’s silence. “When I go to the next life, I need to have something better to tell! A whole lot better.”

The sun was shining and the song of a goldfinch could be heard among the tree crowns that they passed; the air smelled like hyssop and burdock. Henry felt so light.

“Aye, you could tell him about me,” he said, voice bright and confident, underlined with laughter.

Henry noticed Hans turning his face just a fraction of an inch, stopping himself at the last minute from actually turning around to look at him.

“How I served you loyally,” Henry continued, trotting behind him, ”For which you made me a knight and gave me a magnificent castle! Almost like this one here!” 

“Aye, right!” Hans replied, shaking his head, “A fairytale about a bold but uppity blacksmith! Just what Pa would like to hear.”

Henry could only see the back of him, but he could swear Hans’ shoulders moved just very slightly, in diligently muffled laughter. 

“Who are you calling uppity?” Henry asked in feigned outrage. “I am the most down-to-earth man I know!”

“Ha! You must not know very many men, then!” Hans teased, and sped up a bit, forcing Henry to try and catch up with him. 

“Well, I might know more women than men, but still…” Henry said, shrugging, and then decided to absolutely shut up, immediately. 

“Huh?” Hans yelled back, turning around slightly—he was already quite far away, his horse much faster than Pebbles. 

“I was just agreeing with you, Sir Hans,” Henry said, catching up to him at last. “I am, indeed, an arrogant beast.” 

Hans couldn’t keep his laughter in any more, and so he snorted in an incredibly non-noble way. Henry’s heart skipped a beat. 

“That you are, Henry of Skalitz, that you are.”

Soon, they arrived at a small crossroads; there was a cow dozing off in the field right next to them.

“Well,” Hans said, stretching out his arms for a second, still as comfortable and at ease in the saddle as if he was born in it, “I need to get my mind on other things, and get the feeling that I’m living! Let’s really spur these horses on, eh? What do you say?”

He turned around to look back at Henry: Hans’ hair and eyelashes catching the rays of warm sun, his cheeks slightly flushed and his mouth curled up in a cocky smile. The skies behind him, azure like kingfisher’s feathers, stretched over the vast horizon—miles and miles of fields and forests, villages and creeks, roads and meadows—and in the very centre of it, making it all matter very little in comparison, the bold and golden Hans Capon.

Henry felt his heart flutter in his chest.

“How could I refuse you anything?” Henry asked, smiling—throwing it Hans’ way so casually, as if it wasn’t a confession more honest than anything he ever allowed himself to utter. 

Hans grinned, chin raised—joy in his bright eyes. 

“There’s a junction beyond Troskowitz with a roadside chapel,” he said, still grinning, “whoever reaches it first, wins! So get ready…”

Henry grinned back, tightening his grip on the reins. 

“Forward!” 

And as he rode after Hans—knowing very well he wouldn't catch up with him, among the fields and goldfinches and poppies—all that filled Henry’s head was that he could spend his whole life like that. A pace or a stride behind, in the warmth of the sun, getting to watch Hans’s back; getting to see him radiate joy as he goes through the world, kept safe by Henry’s watchful eyes and ready, loyal hands. 

He lost the race, of course. He didn’t mind. 

“Oh, my head feels a lot clearer now,” Hans exclaimed, slowing down his horse once they reached the small white shrine. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Henry replied, trying to make sure it wasn’t visible that his shoulder was giving him trouble again. He wished staying in the saddle came as easy to him as it did to Hans. 

“Thanks for riding with me, old pal,” Capon grinned.

Back in Semine, Henry found that word annoying. Now, it made him smile: he no longer had any qualms with what was between them, gratitude and confidence still filling him to the brim. 

“Think nothing of it,” Henry said, reciprocating the smile and turning around in his saddle to look back whether Mutt was somewhere behind them, “But watch out next time! I won’t hold back.”

“Ha! You never give up, that’s what I like most about you!”

“So, what now, Hans?”

“Like I say, I can see everything clearer now… And the thing that’s clearest to me is I won’t be trifled with any more!”

Uh-oh, Henry thought. Mutt caught up to them and immediately ran up to Hans, trying to playfully nibble his left shoe right below the spur. 

“I’m the Lord of fucking Pirkstein!” Hans exclaimed, trying to wriggle his foot out of Mutt’s reach without accidentally spurring his horse. “Let everyone know who they have the honour of addressing!”

“I’m with you on that, noble sir,” Henry laughed and whistled at his dog to get away. 

They stood there, for a moment, their horses’ sides nearly touching. There was a brief second where their eyes met and Henry was sure Hans was about to say something—but he only smiled, in a soft and small and sweet way, and spurred his horse. 

“Splendid! So, forward to Nebakov!”

And so they galloped into the forest: wind in their hair and sun at their backs, and at least for a moment, not a worry in the whole world—other than some muddy paw prints and a hole in the sole from a dog’s tooth. 

“I’m glad you feel better,” Henry said as they slowed down on the woodland path. 

“So am I, friend, so am I! We still have lots to do before we go back to Rattay.” Hans looked up at the magpie flying overhead. “And I was afraid, you know? That I’d fuck it up… And I almost did! But I’m not afraid any more.”

Neither am I, Henry thought, noting the spot where the magpie flew towards her nest. 

“Now I see it all as an opportunity and a challenge!” Hans added.

So do I, Henry chuckled under his breath. 

“Any old fool can manage simple tasks!”

Like delivering a letter?

“But hard ones! They require a man like Hans Capon of Leipa and Pirkstein!”

“And Henry of Skalitz!” Henry added and had to stop himself very hard from laughing like a madman. He felt like his chest was about to burst with all that joy. 

“Aye, he faces the hardest tasks of all!” There was laughter in the young lord’s voice as well. 

They rode on, hooves splashing against the water of the forest creek spilling out onto the path. Henry looked around from the saddle, scanning the surroundings; with the month slowly nearing its end and the weather being very hot and dry for the past couple of days, it would be the perfect moment to gather eyebright. He wondered if Hans would agree to a short rest, just so he could take a look around and find at least a plant or two. 

Henry started humming again, and hurried Pebbles to catch up to Hans. Somehow in that short while, he managed to get quite far from Henry, clearly enjoying the moment of freedom and breathing in the fresh forest air deeply—there was no point to chase him, so Henry decided to keep his horse at a steady pace instead. 

“Skákal pes přes oves,” he sang, staying behind, “přes zelenou louku! Šel za ním myslivec, péro na klobouku!”

Hans slowed down, turning around in the saddle to look at Henry—who was too busy trying to spot more magpie nests in the trees above to notice it. That also meant he didn’t notice Hans giggle.

Henry kept humming.

“Šel za ním myslivec… Péro na klobouku,” he sang, again, and then blew a raspberry. 

They sang this song all the time in Skalitz, as children, how come he couldn’t remember how it went? It started to be a bit annoying, the words being right there at the tip of his tongue-

“Pejsku náš, co děláš,“ Hans suddenly chimed in, voice bright and high, full of laughter, “žes tak vesel stále?”

Henry’s mouth opened in disbelief—he had to shake it off before bursting out laughing and finishing the song. “Řek bych vám, nevím sám!”

“Hop, a skákal dále!” They finished together. 

Henry rushed Pebbles to catch up to Hans, and rode right next to him. 

“Why the shocked face, Henry?” Capon sent him a small smile, leaning back in the saddle a bit. 

“Well, I just… I didn’t expect you to know a silly village song like that.”

“Why?”

“Well…” Henry gestured vaguely with one hand, holding the reins in the other. “It being a village song and all.”

“Henry,” Hans shook his head, laughing under his breath, “I’m not some princeling from Paris, or even Prague. I grew up in Rattay! Rattay!”

“Well, I-”

“And sure, I am a noble, and I slept in a feather bed, but I ran around playing with the tailor’s and baker’s children,” he continued, the ease with which he remained in the saddle still a marvel for Henry, “and my wet nurses sang songs, too, and they weren’t from Paris either.”

“And here I thought your childhood was all Latin hymns and-”

“And?”

“Well,” Henry shrugged, “actually I don’t have another clever example.”

Hans laughed so hard he nearly spurred his horse into gallop. 

Henry really hoped the moment would last forever—did his best to etch every detail into his memory so hard it would stay there, to be relived, until the end of his mortal life. 

“I might look and speak and carry myself like royalty,” Hans added, cocky, as they rode on, “but alas, I am just a noble.”

“Right!”

“With considerable estates, once I come of age, and undeniable influence…”

Henry chuckled to himself. 

“Don’t you laugh, blacksmith’s boy,” Hans wagged his finger at him, trying very hard to feign seriousness. “Or I’ll put you in the stocks!”

“Aye, my lord, please forgive me,” Henry hung his head in a respectful gesture, hand over his heart. “Anything but the stocks… Last time that happened to me, I had to put up with truly horrid company clapped there with me...”

“Oh, pray tell?” Hans asked, putting on a forcibly concerned face and barely managing to hide his smile.

“If I were to describe him… No, my lord, I shan’t. It would be too offensive for your noble ears.”

“I see,” Hans straightened his back in the saddle and raised his chin up. “I hope the second you got out of the stocks you caught up to that devil, and taught him a lesson?”

“Weeell,” Henry prolonged the syllable, and looked slowly around pretending to be deep in thought. “I had to stop myself from going after him right away, actually.”

“Oh?” Hans’ brows furrowed in feigned noble concern again. He enjoyed himself, clearly. 

“Yes! Acting in haste would be unwise,” Henry shook his head sagely, “and I had to allow my blood to cool down, lest I committed something cruel. Who am I, after all, to dole out judgement? I put it in God’s hands.”

“Very wise, indeed,” Hans nodded as well, looking ahead and very decidedly not at Henry, “but… If you were to act in haste… And say, well, caught up to him…”

Henry turned his head to look at Capon, but he was very stubbornly not looking back at him. 

“Mhm?”

“Then… What would you do?”

“Well…” Henry was grateful for the sudden cooler breeze that the forest brought, cooling his skin; he didn’t know what to say next. 

“Would you punish him?” Hans asked, still looking straight ahead; he kept his voice impressively neutral. 

“Aye,” Henry replied after a short, purposeful pause. He let his voice drop down a bit. “I wouldn’t dare raise my hand at him… But I would corner him, I think, and make him apologise.”

“Make him?”

“Yes.”

“And if he didn’t?” 

“He would. I can be very persuasive.”

“Hm, no doubt, no doubt…” Hans hummed, swaying rhythmically in the saddle as his horse slowed down a bit, going through mud. “Still…”

“Pushed against a wall and cornered, trust me, my lord, he’d yield.”

Hans cleared his throat; suddenly, he became very interested in the elderflower bushes they passed, turning his head as far away from Henry as he could—all to hide the crimson blooming on his cheeks. He then pressed the reins against the neck of his steed, urging it to turn onto the left side path. 

“Your knowledge of these parts is impressive,” Henry said to interrupt the silence that suddenly fell upon them.

“Haha, don’t worry…” Hans’ voice was a bit raspy, “I spent some time in the local forests, so I know my way around.”

Oh, I know, Henry thought.

“Soon the path will turn sharply, and head down a steep hill… So be careful your horse doesn’t stumble.” There was pride in Capon’s voice at the fact he got to show off a little; usually it would be Henry guiding them through the forest, and not the other way around. 

“And by the way,” he continued, “there won’t be any time for it now… But near Nebakov, there’s this nice marsh where wild boar go to wallow… A good spot, tried and tested!”

“Have you forgotten your last encounter with a boar?”

“Don’t be so discouraging! I’ve learned a thing or two since then, and I won’t let any swine catch me off guard!”

“Ha, I’m sure!”

“We’ve both learned plenty, eh, Henry?”

Henry didn’t reply—he just smiled to himself. 

“God, what I wouldn’t give to just go hunting-”

“You mean poaching, Sir Hans?”

“- with you,” Hans finished, despite being interrupted—but mostly because he didn’t manage to stop himself on time. He cleared his throat nervously. “Anyway, we should, uh, hurry to Nebakov-”

“Couldn’t we stop for a short while?”

“No,” Hans replied, quickly, and only then cleared his throat again, “I mean, why?”

“There’s this herb that-”

“Oh God, Henry,” Capon groaned, rolling his eyes, “Von Bergow sent us on a mission to convince his vassal to move his whole garrison against those arseholes that attacked us, and you want to pick herbs?”

“Alright,” he replied, “forget I asked.”

They rode in silence for a moment; Mutt ran off into the thicket after some hare. 

“If we do well with Nebak, we can stop on our way back to Trosky,” Hans said, making sure his voice was softer. 

“It’ll be too late, then,” Henry replied, gloomy, “it has to be gathered before evening dew.”

“Well we won’t spend the whole bloody day there, will we? It won’t be evening yet.”

“Aye, Sir Hans,” Henry focused on staring into the forest, at the bushes where Mutt disappeared, and nowhere else. 

Hans exhaled loudly. 

“Don’t Sir Hans me, Henry,” he said, surprising Henry quite a bit. “I’ll make sure to hurry the negotiations so you can pick your flowers before they’re touched by evening dew, alright? You stubborn beast.”

“It’s not that important-”

“Don’t you get all moody on me!” Hans slowed down his horse to ride right next to Henry, and turned in his saddle to look at him. “I just want to get this over with, alright? The sooner we deal with this, the more time we’ll have to do whatever else we want.”

Henry nodded, pitifully unable to even attempt to remain mad underneath Capon’s stubborn gaze.

“Alright, alright.”

“Let’s spur these horses on, what do you say? And after we deal with this, we can spend the whole day and the whole night in the meadow.”

Henry laughed. 

“Be careful with your promises, Sir Hans. A nobleman is only as good as his word.”

“Pfft, you truly are stubborn!” Hans laughed as well, and then spurred his horse into full gallop. Henry followed right after him, trying to shield his eyes from the mud kicked into the air by Hans’ steed.

The whole day and the whole night, my lord, Henry thought, and his heart fluttered in his chest like a goldfinch. 

Hans walked out onto the bailey; he was in a good mood, given the negotiations with Lord Nebak went quite well and it seemed Henry and he would be able to return to Trosky not only with good news—but most importantly, quickly. The sun was still rather high in the skies. He looked down, scanning the surroundings for any sign of Henry; he was surprised he didn’t hear his laughter throughout the whole time he was talking with Jaromier. He made sure to tune out from time to time and listen for that one particular sound, but somehow, to no avail. Either the garrison at the fortress was full of really dull and boring men, or Henry once again got himself drafted into helping some orphans or kittens. Or damsels in distress.

He wasn’t at the dice table, and he wasn’t in the courtyard. When Hans looked out over the stables, he didn’t notice him there either. It got on his nerves a little bit—but the wine Lord Nebakov offered him throughout their conversation spread in warm waves throughout his body, and the slowly increasing buzz muted out most of the negative emotions the moment they appeared.

The wine, however, had one downside, too: it caused certain things Hans believed himself to be quite proficient at pushing down to bubble up to the surface. Things that were too tempting; too pleasurable for Hans to keep denying himself, especially in this state. He wouldn’t allow himself that thread of thought anywhere near Henry—the sheer idea made his hands shake a bit and his stomach turn into a knot—but given Henry was nowhere to be found for at least a moment or two, it couldn’t hurt. 

Well, whether it hurt or not was actually a wholly different matter.

Hans made his way downstairs, slowly, surprised at how difficult it was to walk in a straight line; if he was to be honest with himself, the negotiations made him nervous enough to drink too much of that wine. It was a good wine, too—it would be a crime not to indulge a bit. He decided to wait by the horses, hoping that was the spot they did actually agree on before: he couldn’t recall. 

The moment he leaned back against the fence, his back hitting the hard wood, the wine truly unravelled all his pushed-down thoughts; they rushed to his head and he could feel the tips of his ears get red—the sunny day suddenly got even warmer. 

I can be very persuasive, echoed in his mind in Henry’s raspy voice. Pushed against a wall and cornered, trust me, my lord, he’d yield. 

Hans pressed his back a little bit harder against the wood. He crossed his arms, hoping to look entirely unbothered and inconspicuous—and let his eyes close, turning his face slightly upwards as if simply soaking in the sun.

In reality, however, he was imagining Henry’s hand lifting his chin up. Roughly, looking into his eyes with intensity much hotter than the sun. He’d have Hans pushed right against that wall he mentioned, cornered—the weight of his body hovering a mere inch from him, greedily stealing all that space between them yet not touching him, not yet. Just his hand, rough and calloused yet somehow so light-fingered, too, and smelling like chamomile, forcing him to look up. 

And he would stubbornly refuse to look, of course—hoping to rile him up a bit, just a little bit more, trap him into pressing against his body with his; the weight of the armour and his muscles and all that pent up tension driving Hans’ back nearly painfully into the wall. His breath, slightly pushed out of his chest, as Henry looks down at him.

Will you apologise, my lord? He’d ask, voice low and nearly growling; meant for no one else to hear but Hans alone. He enjoyed each time Henry used that phrase against him to a degree he hardly dared confess to.

And would he—apologise? Would he yield, right away, pushing against Henry’s firm body, teasing him into action, hips bucking to brush against his? Or would he refuse, defiant, looking at him with clear challenge in his eyes—Henry’s knee suddenly between his thighs to pin him to the wall even harder? Would he trick him, eagerly, into abandoning any appearances and boundaries of respect—and giving in?

Whichever path he’d choose, their bodies would be suddenly pressed flush against each other: Henry’s breath on his skin, his face hovering over his so close he could nearly feel his stubble scratch against his cheek—and pushing against him, he would find Henry already hard, eager. Impatient to have his way with him. Already overcome with need—with unbearable, unbridled want, meant for no one else but Hans alone. 

My lord? He’d tease, his breath hot right next to Hans’ ear. That phrase, when used in front of others, filled him with pride—that he could boast he had an escort like Henry. But when Henry used it when it was just the two of them—mischief in his eyes—Hans’ loins burned with fire. 

Then, his sword-hand would press, hard, against Hans’ hipbone—brazen with the intent to move it, shamelessly, to cup his arse. Through the fine fabric of his hose, he would feel Henry’s fingers dig into the flesh so intensely as if he was already bare-

The sound of very familiar steps suddenly pulled him out of his fantasy. To his own embarrassment Hans realised that this fantasy of his, combined with all that wine, worked a little bit too well together: causing a similarly familiar stirring low within him; a stirring that he had to quickly banish. He adjusted his belt a bit, the weight of his sword by his side a sensation grounding enough to let him focus on something else than the scene he conjured in his mind. 

“Excellent!” He exclaimed as Henry walked up to him, “My favourite retainer and protector just when I need him!”

Don’t just call him your favourite after imagining his sword-hand on your arse, you absolute fool, Hans scolded himself right away. You’re transparent as a mountain spring.

“The mission is fulfilled! It was a good meeting. In fact, we had a nice long chat, some wine… Sir Jaromier is a pleasant fellow!”

Henry looked a bit worried, scanning the stables behind Hans cautiously.

“And! He promised to send some men to help Lord Von Bergow, of course. So we got what we came for! What about you, did you have fun? You disappeared somewhere.”

“Aye, you could say that,” Henry replied, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Listen, Sir Hans… There’s something off about this place.”

“What do you mean? What’s off?”

“Not so loud!” he hushed him. “Let’s get our horses and get out of here, and I’ll tell you everything on the way.”

“I knew you were in a hurry, but-” 

Henry interrupted him, closing the distance between them in one stride; suddenly, he was so close to Hans their cheeks nearly touched—the only thing Hans could see and smell was Henry. A hint of smoke, a hint of sweat, leather and mint. The stir returned, threatening to become very apparent any moment. 

“I don’t think these are Nebak’s men.” Henry whispered. “Let’s get out of here without raising any suspicion, and I’ll tell you everything on the way to Trosky.”

“Alright, alright,” Hans raised his hands in a defensive gesture. “And take a step back, Henry! You're upwind and in dire need of a visit to baths. I’d like to be able to breathe.”

Henry huffed, thrown off track, and took three steps back. He forced himself to take his hand off his sword to appear as inconspicuous as he could; then, he let Hans go in front to get the horses.

The moment they rode past the tree line, Henry hurried Pebbles to align with Hans. 

“Look what I found,” he started, “a shield with your crest. Not dissimilar to what we had back at the pond.”

“Oh shit,” Hans replied, eyes wide. “That’s no accident, is it?”

“Mhm,” Henry strapped the shield to his saddle, “And the horses? The groom said something completely different than the man claiming to be Nebak.”

“Claiming?”

“Aye, I’m fairly certain that was someone else, posing as the lord. No idea what happened to him, but it’s all very fishy.”

“It seems so…” Hans’ brows were furrowed, his mouth downturned. “That’s so shit.”

“It is. Back when we were at the herb woman’s hut… When you were out, two men came looking for us. And I just saw them at the fortress.”

“Fuck,” Hans cursed under his breath. “We need to tell Von Bergow.”

“Aye,” Henry replied, “let’s hurry.”

“No, no, you were right before. We can’t raise any suspicion for now. If we gallop out of here like madmen, they’ll know we suspect them.”

“True.”

“They won’t try anything today, right after our visit…” Hans mused, more to himself. “Let’s pretend we’re just happy with the negotiations and get to Trosky at a pace we would if nothing was happening.”

“Aye, Sir Hans.”

“Well,” Hans cleared his throat as they rode through the forest. “This does ruin our other plans a bit, admittedly.”

“What other plans?” Henry asked, absent-mindedly, focused on staying upright in the saddle. 

Why would you think he’d assume you were serious? You’re so ridiculous, Hans thought to himself, embarrassed. Whole day and night in the meadow? You fool.

“I meant the boar hunting, eh?” He lied, trying to sound unaffected. 

“Right,” there was a slightly sadder note in Henry’s voice as he replied, and Capon wasn’t sure why. 

“But!” Hans straightened his back, resolved not to let both their moods sour. “There will be a nice clearing to the right in a moment, let’s stop there. There’s a creek so the horses can drink, and you can look for your herbs and whatnot.”

“I’m not being contrary or ungrateful,” Henry said, turning to look at him, “but I mean it, it’s really not that important. The herbs.”

“No, no!” The young lord shook his head. “This will be useful to make it look like we’re really not in a hurry.  In case they sent someone after us.”

“Aye, Sir Hans… But are you sure it’s a good idea? I don’t want us to slow down on account of-”

“Henry,” Hans interrupted him, voice serious for a second. “We’re stopping. I’m not blind.”

“Hm?” Henry’s brows furrowed slightly. 

“Your shoulder,” he gestured in the direction of Henry, “I’m not blind. I can see it hurts. A short break will do us both good.”

Henry looked a bit embarrassed, suddenly not sure where to look; he reflexively straightened in the saddle, trying to appear entirely alright. Still, the shoulder did hurt, sending a ripple of pain down his spine, making him hunch his back a little. 

Passing another crossroads, they slowed down; a moment after, they got down from their saddles and guided the horses into the clearing Capon mentioned. It was small, with a creek running straight through it, and spotted with the colourful bloom of various flowers; Henry did spot the eyebright right away. 

“Alright,” Hans said, tying his horse to one of the trees and sitting down on an overturned log, stretching his legs out.. “I would help you, of course, but I can't tell any herbs apart. So.”

“Of course.”

“You don’t happen to have any wine? I can feel a headache coming from stopping drinking so suddenly.”

“Aye, we wouldn’t want that,” Henry laughed, rummaging through his saddlebags. “It’s nowhere near a sylvan red, I must warn you.”

Oh, Hans thought. He remembered.  

The day got a little bit warmer, again. 

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” he replied, reaching for the wineskin. His fingers brushed against Henry’s gloved hand for a second and he felt a shiver run down his sides.

Henry turned his attention towards the pouch by his belt, assessing the herbs with it. Then, he took off his gloves—Hans’ gaze immediately fell to his hands, and then, quickly, away.

“I just need a little bit more,” Henry said, walking away and kneeling down in the grass to pick the eyebright by the creek. 

“Take your time! There’s plenty of wine and I won’t be rushed,” Hans replied, smiling. 

It only took a short moment for Henry to return.

“That’s it?”

“Aye, I managed to, uh… Gather some a bit earlier.”

“What, when?” Hans rested his elbows on his knees and looked up at Henry curiously. 

“At, uh, Nebakov.” Henry shrugged. 

His neck, right above the collar of his riding pourpoint, turned a very particular shade of red. 

“Henry…” Hans looked at him, grinning. “You dog.”

He did not look back at him, and, very stubbornly, did not reply. 

“Quite literally just the one wench at the whole fortress, and you went… To the meadow with her right away?” Hans laughed. “How long did that take you? Did I make it up the stairs to Jaromier’s chambers at least, before the two of you found yourselves picking herbs?”

Hans’ tone was very cocky and unbearably teasing; to his utmost satisfaction, he noticed Henry’s ears turn red, too. 

“Well,” Henry cleared his throat. “Her name is Klara, and she really did need help looking for herbs.”

“Did she now? Thank God you have such a good and eager heart, Henry.” Hans could not stop grinning. “Now, sit next to me and tell me everything in detail.”

“I would rather… Not do that,” Henry replied, suddenly focused on some different plants blooming next to the water. He turned his back to Hans and started picking them.

“Now, come on!” Hans laughed again, taking a swig from the wineskin. “God knows what awaits us once we get back to Von Bergow and when we’ll have time to talk again.”

“Don’t say that,” with a whole bunch of plants in his hands, Henry walked up to the log and sat on the grass right in front of it, resting his back against the wood—and not looking at Hans sitting right behind him, a little to the side. 

“Well, will you tell me or not?” Hans nudged his shoulder with his knee. “Did she… Like the flowers you picked? Or did you pick them too fast?”

“I picked them at just the right pace, my lord,” Henry replied, focused on the plants he put in front of him. In a short while, his hands were busy tying them together absent-mindedly. Hans wondered if that was the usual process for picking herbs—actual herbs, that is.  

“Just the right pace…” Hans giggled to himself, taking another sip of the wine. It wasn’t all that bad. 

“And the right rhythm, and the right pressure, too,” Henry said, the nervousness suddenly gone from his voice. “The grass was nicely warm from the sun, luckily. I’d hate for her to catch a cold.”

Hans giggled again, allowing himself the small and hopefully unnoticeable indecency of not moving his knee away from Henry’s shoulder. It was only brushing against it, lightly, but that was enough for him. 

“No wonder your shoulder hurts now,” Hans teased, “all that rolling around in the meadow, eh?”

“What can I say,” Henry shrugged, the friction of it sending a shiver through Hans’ knee and up his thigh. “I was promised a day in the meadow, so I couldn’t pass such an opportunity, could I?”

Hans swallowed, looking down at Henry’s fingers joining the flowers together. 

“A day and a night,” he said, surprising himself. He felt his heart beat faster. 

You’re such a fool. Leave him alone. 

Henry did not reply, stubbornly focused on the flowers.

See?

“I am no herbalist,” Hans changed the subject quickly, clearing his throat. “But even I can tell these are forget-me-nots, and not herbs.”

“Flowers can be herbs,” Henry replied.

“Henry.”

“Aye, well, I’ve got all the eyebright I wanted already. And if my lord wants to finish his wine and not be rushed, I can’t let my hands be idle.”

“How very considerate of you,” Hans’ voice was a bit shaky, and he really hoped it wasn’t apparent. His leg was now pressed flush against Henry’s shoulder and arm; he could feel his muscles tense a tiny bit as his fingers worked to weave the flowers together.

“And these are forget-me-nots, yes, but that’s not all,” Henry raised the plants he was turning in his hands up a bit, making sure Hans sitting behind him could see, “the white one, that’s angelica. Good against being charmed by witches.”

Hans snorted, drinking his wine. Then, he leaned a bit over Henry’s shoulder to see better. He inhaled, sneakily: Henry’s hair smelled like spruce smoke, again.

“And this one, a little bit pink, that’s fleabane.”

“Good for fleas?”

“Aye, and, well, fortune telling,” Henry replied, smiling to himself, “girls will spot it in the meadow and see how long it takes its flowers to open. If it blooms quickly, it means their sweetheart will reciprocate their love.”

“And that one, the purple one?” Hans asked, clearing his throat.

“Periwinkle. It’s a…” Henry wove it closely to some greener, fragrant leaves. “Well, it can bring feuding couples closer.”

“Closer-closer?” Hans asked, feeling the wine go to his head again. It became clear that Henry was making a wreath. 

“Aye,” Henry laughed. “And I’ll have to pick plenty of it, I’d imagine, at some point in the future, as it’s a wedding flower, too. Both the bride’s procession and all the groomsmen wear it.”

“Don’t you have enough weddings?”

“Well, not all of them will end like the one in Semine,” Henry laughed. “I will pick plenty of periwinkle for yours, you’ll see. It’ll bring you luck in marriage. And I won’t brawl, that’s a promise.”

Hans felt an unpleasant tightness in his chest.

“I’m not planning on getting married any time soon, Henry.”

“Aye, aye,” Henry hummed, dismissively. “And these, that’s lovage and rosemary.”

“Proper herbs, at last,” the young lord replied, grateful for the change of subject. 

“Good for a roast and good for a, uh,” Henry’s shoulders shook a bit in muffled laughter. “Well, again, bringing sweethearts closer. If a girl manages to stick a rosemary branch in the shirt of her beloved, it’s said he will reciprocate her feelings twofold.”

“And lovage? The name’s a bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s accurate, my lord. If you bathe in it, everyone will like you more, and the prettiest in the village will fall in love with you. If you sneak it into wine, the one who drinks it will fall for you, too, and madly!”

“Madly, you say?”

“Aye… And if your, akhem, log refuses to be set alight… Lovage should help stoke that flame, too.”

Hans snorted. 

“Never happened to me.”

“I’m sure.”

“And this one?” Hans asked, hovering even lower over Henry; he pointed out the only flower Henry picked but did not weave into the wreath: it lay there in front of him, on the ground, dark green leaves and a crown of a thousand small white flowers.

“That, uh,” Henry looked down and shrugged, “I… Uh, actually I don’t know. Plucked it by accident.”

“Well, no one can know everything! Still… How do you even remember it all?” Hans asked, feeling the day get warmer again. He was already done with his wine but he did not want the moment to end—he could listen to Henry for hours, even about something as irrelevant as flowers. 

Henry shrugged. Then, he turned around to look at him, suddenly realising how close Capon was sitting. 

“How’s the wine, my lord?”

“Finished,” Hans admitted, clumsily passing him the empty wineskin.

“Let us go, then,” Henry replied, getting up. He dusted off his clothes and threw the wreath he wove on the ground to the side, carelessly. It was clear he didn’t plan on doing anything with it—simply leave it there; he nearly stepped on it as he walked past. Then, he walked up to the tree where their horses were tied, packing only the eyebright into his saddlebags. 

Hans got up as well, feeling the warmth of wine spreading in soft waves across his body. He made sure Henry wasn’t looking… And quickly reached down, snatching the wreath up and hiding it in his coat—he was glad he had the wine to blame for that idea. Then, as if nothing happened at all, he walked to his horse.

“Wait-”

Suddenly, before he was able to get in the saddle, he felt Henry walk up right behind him—and reach out, abruptly wrapping his fingers around his wrist. Hans turned around, mouth agape, feeling his heart thrash in his chest; he felt warmth rush to his cheeks immediately. 

Please.

Henry was looking at him with great focus, eyebrows furrowed and mouth pursed in puzzlement. All just mere inches away from his face. It took Hans a moment to understand Henry wasn’t exactly looking him in the eyes—he was looking more at his forehead, and on the top of his head. 

“What-” he coughed out, caught off guard by Henry’s sudden closeness and strong grip on his wrist, and the fact that his heart threatened to jump out of his chest.

Henry still looked at him, intensely. His fingers were curled around Capon’s wrist so tight it nearly burned. 

“Weren’t you,” Henry started, and then hesitated. His eyebrows furrowed even deeper. “Weren’t you shorter than me, my lord?”

Hans’ mouth opened even wider, in a horribly undignified way. 

“What?” He managed to get out, his face burning. 

“I could swear you were slightly shorter than me,” Henry explained, suddenly letting go of his wrist. “Weren’t you?”

“I-” Hans shook his head. “What are you even talking about?”

“Look,” Henry took another step closer, close enough to nearly touch Hans with his body. “Look! Hans! You were shorter than me in Rattay, I swear on the Blessed Virgin. And now you’re not!”

Hans looked at Henry as if he just fell from the skies—and hit his head really, really hard. 

“Was I wearing different shoes?” Henry mused, more to himself than to Hans. “I swear I was taller.”

Hans just shook his head, feeling laughter come over him in sudden waves. 

“Ha! Well, I must have grown an inch or two since then,” he exclaimed, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. “Who would have thought!”

“That’s ridiculous,” Henry replied, looking nearly offended. Hans started laughing like a maniac. “When? How? We’re too old to be getting taller.”

“Maybe you are,” Hans shrugged, taking a step back from Henry, still laughing. He had to get away or he’d doom himself fully, the wine threatening to get him to commit something Henry would absolutely hate him for. “I am forever young, as you can see, and constantly changing in the most unexpected of ways!”

“Good God,” Henry muttered to himself as he got into the saddle. “Are you sure the executioner didn’t stretch you with the noose on the gallows?”

“That’s such a stupid thing to say, Henry,” Hans laughed, spurring his horse on and turning in the saddle to look at him. “Just accept it!”

“Aye…”

“I think I’m even an inch taller than you now, no?”

“We don’t need to talk about this any more.”

“Henry?” Hans asked, laughing, simply wanting Henry to look at him.

“Aye?”

“Come on, let’s get back to Trosky! Before that swill fully kicks in and you end up having to take me on your horse to ride like Brothers Templar,” Capon was still grinning as he said it; he had a feeling he would be grinning for a couple hours more at least.

And as they rode back to Von Bergow’s castle, the cooler evening breeze in their hair, all that Hans could think about were Henry’s fingers around his wrist. 

Twilight poured over Trosky: the skies, dimmed, filled with low blues and grays, and the first stars could be seen behind the sparse clouds. Evening bird song echoed throughout the courtyard;  the voices of people already hushed. The conversation with Von Bergow went alright; Hans was glad the lord believed them when it came to the situation at Nebakov—he was, however, less glad about the task he immediately entrusted them with. 

“Shit, shit…” he whispered under his breath as they made their way down the stairs, away from Von Bergow’s chamber. “Torture..?”

“Easy, Sir Hans,” Henry replied, his voice calm and firm. “We’ll see how far we go without any torture. I’m sure it won’t be necessary.”

“We can’t let Von Bergow down, Henry,” he hissed in a hushed tone. “If he says…”

“Listen, you are skilled in diplomacy,” Henry calmed him down as they entered the corridor leading up to the chamber Hans was given. “I know some things about being persuasive, too.”

Oh, Hans thought, some of the worry being immediately pushed out of his mind by thoughts very, very different in nature. 

“We’ll get all the information out of that scum without even touching him, you’ll see.”

“I hope you’re right,” Hans said. They approached his doors and he paused, hand on the handle—he didn’t want the evening to end just yet. “Still, if he’s one of them… They got good people killed. Oats… Some retribution is necessary, no?”

“Luckily, we get to sleep on it, given Sir Otto wants him to rot in the dungeon overnight.” Henry replied, leaning against the wall. “You’ll see, tomorrow it will look much less doomed.”

“I hope so.”

“Right,” Henry cleared his throat and pushed himself off the wall. His eyes dropped, just for a fraction of a second, to Hans’s hand hesitating on the handle. “I will see you tomorrow, for the morning meal?”

“Yes,” Hans replied. Then, he didn’t know what to do or say, so he just stood there. 

Would he say no, if you asked him to join you in your chamber? Hans thought, feverishly. It wouldn’t have to mean anything indecent.

Henry looked at him, slightly puzzled—it was clear Hans wanted to say something, so he waited. 

Make something up. Say you need his help with something, anything. Your-your armour or your bow, or anything. 

Henry, out of politeness, bowed slightly, saving Hans the awkwardness. 

“Goodnight, Sir Hans,” he said, hand over heart for a second. Then, he smiled, and turned on his heel, disappearing down the stairs—while Hans still stood there, in front of his chamber, frozen. 

You fool, he scolded himself. Stop pestering the poor man. You’ve got him in enough trouble already.

Hans shook his head, bringing himself forcefully out of that strange stupor. Then, he finally pressed the handle and entered his room; locked the door behind him and kicked off his shoes, leaving them unceremoniously in the middle of the chamber. He opened the chest and threw his hood in, and then his coat—he took his shirt off, struggling a bit as he pulled it over his head. Standing there, in just his hose, he looked down at the chest.

The colourful and fragrant wreath, slightly wilted already, stuck out from the pile of clothes; Hans reached down for it and brought it to his face for a second. It smelled like grass and rosemary, mostly—and the wetness of the creek caught in the flower petals. 

“All those flowers… Fortune telling and love potions and weddings,” he said out loud, to himself, “well, at least the protection from witches could come in handy.”

He let his fingers brush against the delicate petals for a moment; turned the wreath in his hands. It seemed so very Henry to be able to kill a man with one masterful push of the sword—and weave a sweet-smelling wreath in a meadow, too. 

Hans put the wreath on the bedside table; stood over it for a longer moment, the air from a half-open window cool against his bare skin. He knew why he took it with him—but he didn’t want to face it. He sighed and sat on the bed.

The warmth of the wine was decidedly gone from his body—but the other warmth wasn’t. He closed his eyes, getting his tensed muscles to relax. 

For a moment, he wanted to return to the scenario he imagined at Nebakov, his back firmly against the wooden fence—but something else sneaked in, stubborn and sly:

The face Henry made when he realised Hans wasn’t shorter than him any more; inches away from him, eyes slightly widened, eyebrows furrowed. Surprise, slight feigned outrage—the way he bit his lip, shaking his head in disbelief. There was something funny in it, yes, but also something… Very honest. Vulnerable, familiar. 

Hans liked having the upper hand. And with Henry—and all the feelings he didn’t dare admit to—he rarely had that opportunity. He could have the upper hand because he was a noble, yes—but that carried no thrill; it was boring. Hans preferred treating Henry as an equal, and find that upper hand… In some other way. Clever joke or retort, or killing an enemy they fought together before Henry got the chance to. Saying something with a double meaning... He liked seeing Henry surprised, thrown off track. A bit embarrassed, even. Blush creeping up his neck. 

Back in Rattay, not long after their wild bath visit, Hans’ mind came up with a very particular fantasy; back then, it was a little bit more about that upper hand alone, establishing his dominance over Henry, contrary and cocky. It was a scenario he played out in his thoughts many times: he would arrive at the baths—or sometimes, some chamber at Pirkstein during a feast or some other celebration—and find Henry there, with some girl, hidden away from others. Busy. They wouldn’t notice him at first: he would lean against the door frame, smirking, arms crossed. 

The wench would be on her back, her long legs in the air, her head thrown back in pleasure—he would hear her moans, even if she tried to stifle them—and Henry would be right there, between those legs, his hose pulled down just enough to let him take her. His back turned to Hans, unaware. His arse, bare, tensing with each push of his hips. Hans could see, in his imagination, the girl’s hands mark Henry’s broad back with long, red scratches: across the scars and marks, and the lines where armour dug into Henry’s skin a bit too hard throughout the day. Henry would be kissing her neck, his stubble rough against her skin but his mouth, even if hungry, ultimately cautious—he’d use that kissing as a way not to moan out loud himself. But he wouldn’t be able to stop himself for too long; Hans knew that Henry would be loud in his pleasure, growling and grunting and breathing into his lover’s ear. 

And then, they would notice him—the wench, giggling, and Henry, panicked, nearly pulling out—and Hans would just wave his hand, urging them to continue. She would laugh and then the laugh would turn into another moan underneath Henry’s weight—because Henry would comply, too, of course, feeling Hans’ eyes on his back and arse as he came, deep into her, panting. 

Hans swallowed, feeling himself getting hard already. Still, as pleasant as this fantasy was, it wasn’t what he was looking for that night—he didn’t want to watch. He didn’t want to order Henry around or bring him down a notch.

He wanted to cause him to make that slightly shocked face. Bite his lip. Hesitate, for a second, and then give in. Accept the challenge Hans was throwing his way. 

Hans leaned back on his outstretched arm, bringing his other hand to brush lightly against his length; he palmed himself through the hose for a moment, eyes squeezed shut as he searched for the right vision in his mind. 

It could be that clearing, he thought, pushing his hips up a bit against his open hand.

When Henry’s fingers curled so tightly around his wrist—he would grab Henry’s hand, press it harder, surprising him; then, he’d take two steps back, pulling Henry with him. His back against the tree, and Henry's body over his, disbelief in his eyes. Hans would then let go of his hand, instead bringing his palm up, to raise Henry’s chin slightly—look deep into his eyes, his own eyelids half-closed, sly, seductive. He’d let his gaze fall to Henry’s half-open lips, linger there; he’d see the crimson bloom on his cheeks and his chest rise in quicker breaths. 

Hans pushed his hand down his hose, his hips bucking immediately at the very sensation of his bare hand on his cock—he reached lower, to cup his balls, refusing himself further friction so the fantasy wouldn’t end too soon. 

Henry would be surprised—but he wouldn’t be thrown off. He’d wait, eager, for Hans’ next step—for Hans to seduce him. 

And seduce him he would. 

He would raise Henry’s chin even higher, baring his neck. Then, he would slowly, agonisingly, press his lips against Henry’s throat: feel it tense, feel his pulse under his tongue, feel his breath get lost as he kissed him. He’d feel Henry’s body tense for a moment— and then relax, and melt, eagerly, into his embrace. He would switch their positions, too, so he could press Henry against the tree, his mouth on his neck and his hands roaming his body: his arms, toned, and his broad chest, then down to the softness of his stomach right above the hemline of his hose.

Hans brought his hand back up again, curling around the base of his cock. Then, he dragged it upwards in one slow stroke, letting the grip tighten even more over the head; then, he stroked downwards, but only halfway. Then, up again.

He wouldn’t just kiss his neck; he’d leave a love bite or two, knowing Henry would be both horrified and thrilled to be marked in that way, and he’d move to kiss him on the lips, hard. Henry would try to reciprocate the kiss even harder—seeing it as a challenge— but Hans would dig his fingers into his waist, deep, making him inhale sharply and bite Hans’ lip. That would make Hans break the kiss for a moment, look into Henry’s eyes: hazy, confused, pupils blown wide. 

Tsk, tsk, he’d say, shaking his head. You nearly drew blood, Henry. Careful. 

Hans kept stroking himself—at first, he wanted to prolong his own pleasure, but the fantasy proved a bit too potent. He hadn’t been touched in way too long; he decided to just do what felt right at the tempo he wanted, even if it was to end very soon. His hips started bucking in rhythm with his hand—he had to clench his jaw to stifle moans.

Henry, he’d say, if you want something, you need to use your words.

His strokes got a bit frantic; he was so slick with precum he didn’t even need to spit into his hand. He curled his fingers tighter, angling his cock just right—using his wrist to support the stronger strokes. 

But Henry would be speechless—he’d just look at him with those big, bright eyes, clouded with desire and disbelief. He’d swallow, hard, and look down at Hans’ chest. And Hans would let him, smirk dancing on his lips: Henry would touch him, unsure at first, feather-light. And then, his hands would get impatient, caressing him through his shirt, then down, desperately, through his hose. He’d press his forehead into the crook of Hans’ neck, resting his weight against him—and Hans would support them both, making sure they still stood upright as Henry’s hand found its way down his hose. He’d take Hans into his hand, no hesitation any more, and he’d curl his fingers around the base of his cock just as hard as they curled around his wrist before. 

Hans could imagine the exact pressure—the exact position of Henry’s fingers. He committed it fully to his memory, and now, mirrored it perfectly with his own hand. His cock twitched in response, sending a wave of pleasure through his body. 

He could have Henry do anything, eager to please— seduced— but he’d only let him touch his cock with his sword-hand. Skilled, clever hand. But nothing more. He’d allow Henry to stroke him until completion, faithfully and attentively, even as Henry’s hand shook a bit, overwhelmed.

Hans’ strokes turned into very short, quick motions, focused on the area right below the head of his cock; he could feel the release incoming, a familiar tension rising in his thighs and his arse, and across his loins.

Go faster now, Henry, he’d whisper into his ear. And Henry would—harder, faster—and Hans would come, in hot, violent bursts, all over his hand and his armoured forearm; drops of his cum falling down on the ground between them. 

A strained moan. Hans bit down his lip hard as he came, hunched over, staining his braies and hose; he inhaled sharply through his teeth, feeling his arm burn with the effort and his face burn with the thrill of it. 

“Holy shit,” he whispered to himself, getting up and wriggling out of the sticky clothing. Casting them into the corner—glad for the muddy paw prints that could be used as an excuse why he needed them laundered—he couldn’t stop himself from smiling, self-satisfied. Then, he kneeled over the chest again, pulling out clean braies and the hose he slept in—not feeling comfortable enough at Trosky to sleep without it— and started putting them on.

He was halfway through tucking himself back into his hose, still half-hard, when the silence of the night got interrupted by a knock on his door. He felt a panic, for a second, then shook it off and rushed to the door.

He opened it, just a couple of inches, letting the light from the corridor into his dark chamber. 

“Henry? What the hell are you doing back here at this hour?” He hissed, trying to keep his tone hushed. He could hear his heart in his head. 

“Apologies, Sir Hans,” Henry was also already half-disrobed, just in his hose and shirt, the coat thrown over his shoulders haphazardly. He must have come all the way from the smithy like that. “I wanted to ask-”

He stopped for a moment, eyebrows furrowed.

“Are you feeling alright?” Henry asked, suddenly, worry in his voice. “You look flushed.”

“I’m entirely al-”

Before Hans could finish his sentence, Henry’s hand shot up and found its way into the crook of his neck, pressing against his skin. 

“It’s not a fever,” Henry assessed, focus on his eyes. “But you’re running hotter than normal, are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

“Y-es,” Hans managed to get out, the weight of Henry’s touch reminding him very embarrassingly that he was still half-hard. He took a step back. 

“I hope you didn’t catch a cold today,” Henry shook his head, concerned. “Sitting on that log in the shade-”

“I wasn’t the one rolling bare-arsed in a meadow, Henry,” he teased, tone slightly mocking. “If anyone here caught any cold, it’d be you.”

“Or Klara,” Henry shrugged, trying to stop himself from grinning. 

“Still, why are you here in the middle of the night, you beast? They’ll kick us out if we keep causing trouble! You had a question?”

“I just wanted to say that I have the shield, if you want it back.”

“That’s not a question, Henry.”

“Well…” Henry’s eyes suddenly left Hans’ face, instead looking into the room behind him for the briefest moment. There was a slight shadow of surprise there, for a second, and then he looked back at Hans—trying not to smile. 

“What?”

“Nothing. The question would be, well, do you want it back?”

“I’d like you to keep it,” Hans replied, suddenly remembering he was shirtless. “So everyone can see you’re my escort.”

“Aye, Sir Hans,” Henry smiled. “I’ll carry it proudly, and for your greater glory!”

“Hush, you idiot! You’ll wake everyone up!” Hans hissed. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from smiling, either. 

“Alright, alright, sorry,” Henry whispered back. “So, see you in the morning. Goodnight and sleep tight.”

“Go, you beast,” Hans chuckled.

Then, he watched Henry smile—in a very smug and worryingly self-satisfied way— and walk away. 

As he locked the door and turned to his bed, his heart in his throat, he shook his head.

There was no way Henry would somehow know what just happened, yes? There was no way he would somehow know what Hans was doing—what he was imagining while doing it. Who he was imagining doing it. Doing him. 

Then why that infuriatingly smug smile? Hans thought. 

Sitting down on the bed, he looked straight at the bedside table—and there, at the wreath, perfectly positioned to be fully and shamelessly visible through the open door they talked through. 

Chapter Text

The mornings at Trosky, even sunny and warm as that one, were darker than in other places Henry had been to: the fortifications and towers looming over the courtyard limited the sun, and brought cooler shade. Looking at the skies ahead, nearly cloudless and still slightly pink, Henry could tell the day would be nice—quite hot for that point of the year, but on the dry side instead of sticky, stagnant humidity. 

The day would be nice, at least in terms of weather; the task Von Bergow entrusted them with was definitely far from pleasant. Henry was hoping the lord of Trosky wouldn't bring it up again at breakfast—the meal in and of itself being unorthodox for nobles to begin with—because he knew the subject alone would bring trouble.

Henry worried more about Hans than he did about the torture; he wasn’t sure what it was that he wanted, really. He seemed disgusted by the very idea—yet he craved some sort of retribution, too. Henry didn’t know what exactly was expected of him; didn’t know whether he should play into Von Bergow’s expectations, or whether he should focus on Hans. Either stoking his drive for cruelty in that case, or shield him from it. Reframing it in such a way allowed Henry to escape his own thoughts on the matter—his own drives, ones he would prefer to stay buried. 

It would be much easier if he could talk to Hans; unfortunately, he had not seen him anywhere. He went up to his room, before breakfast, to hopefully walk to Von Bergow’s dining chamber together, but the door did not open and Hans did not appear. He knocked—called out to his lord in a hushed tone—but to no avail. Hans did not come to breakfast, either. If it had been Von Bergow who asked why Henry was alone, he’d have to quickly come up with some excuse; luckily, it was the chamberlain who asked, and so Henry simply told him, brazenly, that he was at no liberty to share his lord’s decisions with just anyone who asks. 

Unpleasant, prickly wave of doubt ran down Henry’s side, making him wince. Perhaps he had gone too far the day before; perhaps he had done something to offend Hans enough to warrant this. But what could it be? Usually, the first thing he’d assume would be talking about Klara—it was, after all, entirely inappropriate to both sleep with her while his lord was negotiating, and even worse to then openly discuss it with him as if he was bragging. But Hans himself did ask; he seemed amused and not offended.

Out of all the people in the world, Hans would be the last to get offended about these matters, after all; Henry was sure he wouldn’t be upset even if he actually caught them in the meadow, halfway through the act. He’d probably even let him finish, before yelling at him, laughing, to get back in the saddle. Or he’d ask to join. 

Henry cleared his throat. What the fuck are you even thinking about, he scolded himself in his thoughts, nearly groaning out loud in frustration. 

Was it the flowers? Was it the tales of fortune telling and village charms? Henry knew it bordered on witchcraft, a little bit—but Hans wasn’t all that religious, after all, and not interested in enforcing the iron rule of the Church upon the folk used to their ways. He couldn’t imagine a village priest getting upset about it, let alone Hans. He seemed interested, even, in Henry’s random rambling. 

Henry analysed, uncomfortable, every single thing he said to him the day before: he made some jokes but nothing egregious. He didn’t let Hans down in any way. He didn’t bring up anything they wouldn’t have joked about before. Was it the fact that he came up to his room, late in the night? To ask about the Leipa shield? But what about it—was it the late hour, or the question, or..? 

Henry inhaled deeply. The wreath—that wasn’t on him. That wasn’t his fault. He didn’t even say anything. 

God, Henry thought, deciding to take a walk through the Trosky grounds. What if it wasn’t the wreath? What if he found the stupid-

This thread of thought was pointless. Hans could have had a thousand different reasons for not coming to the breakfast—a thousand reasons to prefer to be alone, and most of them probably entirely unrelated to Henry. Why would it be in any way tied to Henry, really? Perhaps he just forgot: breakfast wasn't a meal that nobles usually had, and the ones Von Bergow organised at Trosky for his guests and vassals were a political play more than anything else. Maybe he just decided not to go but didn't tell Henry. Knowing Hans, he probably woke up earlier and went down to the baths—get that muddied clothing laundered, and start his day finding pleasure between the legs of the bathhouse wench. 

Henry groaned and shook his head, chasing these thoughts away. 

He looked up at the sky: it would be noon, soon, the sun already high enough for its rays to reach down to the Trosky courtyard. His personal feelings aside, he really did have to find him: they had a task to complete, even if horribly unpleasant; as Von Bergow’s guests, at this point, they could not dally. Henry turned around and walked back to the entrance to the tower, deciding to try Capon’s chamber again. Even if he went someplace, chances were he would be back. Even if he spent hours in the baths, by noon, he should be back. It would be very much like Hans to go mess around with some wench for hours, ignoring his duties, and then hurl the task of torture at Henry to go through with—washing his hands off it. 

Or at least that was what Henry told himself to fuel his frustration. It was easier to be angry at Hans than it was to admit certain things.

Henry knocked on Capon’s door once, politely. Then the second time, slightly impatiently. 

Well, his noble arse clearly isn’t here, he thought to himself, knocking for the third and final time strong enough to make the door shake in its frame. How long could it take to fuck one bathwe-

And the door opened. 

Hans stood in front of him, supporting himself on the handle—he was shirtless, just in the hose Henry knew he slept in: there were faint lines across his torso and arms where the covers pressed too hard and too long against his bare skin. His eyes were unfocused, half-closed. A bit swollen. His hair was a mess, tousled from sleep. The heavy curtains in the chamber drawn, blocking out any sunlight. 

He just woke up, Henry realised. He should have been angry—but somehow he wasn’t. Looking at Hans, still slightly dazed and yawning, he felt some softness in his chest that he did not want to think about too long. 

Hans opened his eyes fully and then quickly narrowed them, the bright corridor blinding him. He groaned.

“Holy shit, Henry,” he said, in a hushed voice, “you wanted to break the door down? Whatever did it do to you?”

“It’s noon, Sir Hans,” he replied, slight impolite bitterness in his tone. “We have a-”

“It’s what,” the young lord coughed out, eyes wide in shock. “What?! Why didn’t you wake me?!”

“I was here before breakfast, and I knocked plenty of times!” Henry was getting mad, piercing Hans with his gaze, as much as the extent to which he opened the door allowed for it. “What was I supposed to do, barge in? Drag you out of bed?!”

“Yeah!” Hans replied, voice raised and pointed. 

“Oh, sure!” Henry threw his hands in the air. “Next time I’ll take that to heart, you’ll see!”

“Fuck,” Capon groaned, rubbing his eyes. “Shit, Von Bergow will kill us. That’s so rude, not even going to the goddamn breakfast!”

“Well, I went,” Henry shrugged and then crossed his arms. “They did wonder where you’ve gone, though.”

“I hope you came up with some feasible excuse...”

“Yes, I told the Lord of Trosky you’re at the baths, between a wench’s thighs, as is your morning habit each day.”

Hans stopped halfway through running his hand through his hair, and looked at Henry, terrified. 

“Jest, my lord.”

Capon pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Ugh,” he moved to the side, opening the door further. “Get in, we’re drawing too much attention. Help me dress.”

Henry walked into the dark room; heard Hans close and lock the door behind them. Then, as Capon was rummaging through his chest, he made his way to the window right away, opening the curtains and then letting fresh air in. He looked into the corner, at a pile of dirty clothes. 

“Hans, you know they do have baths here, right? You can get your-”

“Ugh, can you stop with that joke, I’m really not in the mood,” the young lord snapped, still looking through the chest in growing frustration. 

“Clothes. Laundered.”

“Oh.”

Henry stood in the middle of the room, looking at his shirtless lord hopelessly trying to find a clean hose, and felt himself smile against his own better judgement. 

“I can take it down to the baths,” he said, gesturing at the pile, “not sure when the servants will get here to take it.”

“No, no!” Hans cleared his throat nervously. “You’re my squire, Henry, not my chambermaid.”

“You did just tell me to help you dress,” Henry replied, “and I don’t think you’re planning on putting on armour. If I’m supposed to help you put your hose on, that does make me a chambermaid.”

“As if a peasant knew what a chambermaid’s duties consist of,” Hans looked at him as he got up with some clothes in his hands, eyes narrowed. 

“I can empty your pisspot, Hans, but you might not like the place I empty it to,” he shrugged, trying really hard not to laugh. 

“God, the gall!” Hans exclaimed, shaking his fist dramatically at the ceiling in feigned outrage. “God punishes me for my small, humble transgressions by sending me the most recalcitrant page in the world!”

“Reca- what? Are you calling me stupid?” Henry replied, pretending to be just as outraged.

“Technically I wasn’t, but in practice, well!” Hans shook his head, stopping himself from laughing. Then, he threw the bundled and tied together mess of his shirts straight into Henry’s arms. “I will get into my hose on my own, thank you very much, but do be a dear and wrestle at least one shirt out of this that would still be in a state to wear.”

Henry, catching the clothes, laughed out loud—he couldn’t keep it in any more. He spent the whole morning worrying, and for no reason at all. 

“Now,” Capon started, sitting down on the bed and getting his right leg into the hose. “We need to discuss the whole interrogation thing. I thought about it and-”

Henry managed to untie the bundled shirts, and picked one out—embroidered, fine, and the least wrinkled out of the bunch—but in the process of doing so, dislodged something. And that something fell, quietly, to the floor. 

And that something was nothing else but the small sprig of rosemary he sneaked behind Capon’s collar the day before. 

Kurva.

He picked it up in a blink of an eye—but it was too late. Hans noticed; hose halfway on, he looked at Henry with intensity matching that of a falcon.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“Henry. What was that?”

“What?”

“Oh my God,” Capon groaned. “Are mothers in Skalitz obligated to ritually drop their babes on their heads?”

“Yes, my lord, each Martinmas.”

Hans huffed, trying not to laugh, and got up, wriggling his behind into the hose; still looking at Henry, eyes narrowed.

“What was that, you contrary beast?”

Henry shrugged, feeling blood rush to his head.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought, feverishly. 

“Some leaves.”

“Leaves?”

“Aye,” Henry swallowed, deciding to bet it all on one single throw. It would either work or screw him over completely. “From the wreath, I imagine.”

Hans’ turned pink faster than the skies at the break of dawn. It worked.

“Anyway, as I was saying, the interrogation,” Capon continued very, very quickly, turning around and getting his shoes from the middle of the room, “we should, uh, try as you said. Without violence, at first, as much as we can.”

“Good idea,” Henry agreed, absent-mindedly smoothing the fabric of the shirt in his hands. He was filled, in equal amounts, with relief and…

Well, he wasn’t sure. Something else. It felt good.

“But if,” Hans gestured at him to throw him the shirt, “if push comes to shove, I, uh…”

“No need to say it, Hans. I know what’s expected of me. I won’t let you down.”

Hans looked at him as he pulled the shirt over his head; his hair messy and the tips of his ears still pink. 

“Thank you.”

“Ah, no need,” Henry waved his hand and smiled. “Now, would my lord like me to brush his hair, or does he plan to go interrogate a man looking like he’s been shagged by a hundred squirrels?”

Capon, halfway through fastening the belt over his coat, froze and looked at Henry, eyebrows raised in resignation. He slowly shook his head, without saying anything.

Henry didn’t say anything either. The silence became surprisingly lasting. 

“A hundred squirrels?” Hans asked, at last, sighing. “Squirrels?”

Henry shrugged.

“Why squirrels?”

Henry shrugged again.

“Don’t know. I’d imagine wolves would go for more than just your head, and cause a bigger mess.”

Hans looked at him, in silence, again. Henry tried really, really, hard not to laugh. His lungs started burning.

“And the squirrels… Would shag my head?”

Henry shrugged, again, feeling like he might pass out from keeping his breath in any second.  

“Why a hundred?”

Henry shrugged, again.

“How do you… How do you come up with this stuff?” Hans asked, sighing again; then, running his fingers through his hair, he walked up to Henry. 

He stood very close, still rather silent and serious, and put his hand on Henry’s shoulder. 

“You realise you sound deranged, most of the time?” He asked, shaking his head. He patted Henry’s shoulder gently in deep, feigned worry.

“Aye, my lord,” Henry replied, lips downturned in great pretended sadness. “My Ma, you see, she was very diligent about our Martinmas traditions.”

Hans burst out in laughter so loud and unconstrained his whole body shook with it; still laughing, he pressed his forehead into Henry’s shoulder—just a for a second—groaning. 

“You’re impossible, sometimes,” he said, shaking his head again. 

Then, as if nothing happened at all, he moved and walked past Henry, to the door. 

“Come on, let’s go to that stupid dungeon, and get it over with.”

“Aye,” Henry grinned, hoping Hans couldn’t hear how hard his heart was beating. 

The heavy doors of Von Bergow’s chamber closed behind them. On one hand, Henry was glad the interrogation was done; he was glad to have full confirmation that Nebakov was indeed overtaken by bandits, and the very same bandits who attacked them back at the  pond. He was glad he knew about Istvan.

On the other hand, however, he could still feel his heart in his throat. He lied—and egregiously. Worse: he dragged Hans into it, too. If Von Bergow was to find out about young Semine… 

“Don’t overthink it,” Hans whispered, surprising Henry. “What’s done is done, what’s said is said. We move on.”

“Right,” Henry cleared his throat and then looked at him. He felt a wave of gratitude wash over him in tandem with calm. “We move on.”

“All in all, soon things will be resolved,” Capon spoke up as they made their way down the stairs. “With the feast tomorrow, I imagine Sir Otto and his vassals will agree on the plan of attack quite quickly.”

“I hope so.”

“I’m sure of it! It’s expensive to keep all the men stationed here at Trosky!” Hans gestured a bit extravagantly as they walked outside. “If you’d seen the Rattay ledgers after the Talmberg siege… Oof.” 

“War isn’t cheap.”

“She’s really not. Still, Henry! I’m sure before Sunday, we’ll ride out to take back Nebakov.”

“Aye.”

“Come on, cheer up!” Hans exclaimed, patting Henry’s shoulder with energy enough for it to qualify more as a slap. “Look, the weather is nice, the interrogation thing is done, for now we have nothing to worry about at least for a day or two.”

“I guess you’re right.”

Henry sneaked a look at Hans: he really did seem more relaxed, nearly giddy to finally not have something unpleasant looming over him, at least for a small, short while. There was a newly found ease in how he moved—new energy in his step. A young woman passed them—one of the castle cooks—and smiled at Capon, cheeks slightly flushed; he reciprocated the smile and bowed, a bit too deep than appropriate. He slapped Henry’s arm again.

“See? I told you the weather is nice!”

“Yes, Sir Hans, the weather,” Henry replied, rolling his eyes and massaging his arm. “But it does remind me, you need to eat something.”

“Huh?” 

“You didn’t eat anything yet, today. Given you slept through breakfast. You need to eat,” Henry shrugged, and suddenly felt his face get very warm. He was sure he started getting red; Hans looked at him with raised eyebrows and a wild, big grin on his face.

“Henry of Skalitz, the mother hen!” He howled with joy. “Aww! Who would have thought!”

“Or not!” Henry raised his hands defensively. “Perish from hunger, if you so desire.”

“No, no, you’re right! Seems I do indeed need to sneak into the kitchen!” He laughed. “What would I do without you, eh?”

Hans inhaled, deeply, and exhaled with a content sigh. Nothing was said for a longer moment; Henry’s thoughts started amping up in his head and getting a bit tangled again. 

"Still so strange that Von Bergow throws breakfasts and forgoes the mid-day meal... And with the priest's blessing, too. The man must shit gold," Hans kept talking, more to himself than to Henry.

The feast is tomorrow,  Henry thought. We have the whole day, and the whole… The whole of tomorrow. Even in his thoughts, Henry was careful. If I ask, will he agree? To just ride out, chase the wind? 

They kept walking across the Trosky grounds—Henry realised he didn’t know where they were going. Just forward, perhaps. 

If I have to give a reason why, what do I say? Henry bit his lip, feeling his thoughts overwhelm him a bit. I can’t just tell him, my lord, after all of this, all I want is for us to simply-

Why not? Some part of him chimed in. Why not just tell him? 

Henry slowed down, unknowingly—but noticeably. 

Just tell him. He won’t hate you. If he hates what you say, he’ll just disregard it—he’s no stranger to doing that, and it won’t even hurt. 

He won’t hate you. 

“Henry?” Hans slowed down as well, turning around to look at him. 

Henry looked up at him, heart in his throat; slight dizziness in his head.

“I-”

“What, cat got your tongue?” Hans shook his head. “You’ve got that look on your face again! Overthinking is bad for your health, Henry!”

Henry swallowed. He already decided what to say: keep it simple. Honest.

Can we just ride out? I want to spend time with you.

“It’s the Semine thing, isn’t it?” Hans asked before he could speak up, throwing up his arms in frustration. “You need to stop thinking about it! 

“No-”

“If it’ll make it easier, I can just order you to. No choice but obey then! And enjoy the day!” Hans grinned and turned around, and started walking forwards again. 

Henry stood still for a short moment.

“So, consider yourself ordered to cease overthinking right this instant!” Capon yelled back without turning around. “And carpe diem, Henry!”

Henry sighed; the momentary wave of courage dissipated. He kept standing still in one spot.

“What are we planning to do until then? Until Nebakov?” Henry shouted after his lord. 

“Oh, Henry!” Hans yelled back, already quite far away. “Amuse ourselves? You can manage that on your own, no?”

“Aye,” Henry said under his breath; there was no way Capon heard him.

“I’ll see you when I see you! Carpe diem!” Hans’ voice was already faint, far away. “And carpe… Whatever the Latin is for a very late breakfast!”

The wind carried Hans’ laughter towards Henry for some time—he really wished it didn’t. 

Well done, he scolded himself as Hans disappeared from his line of sight. Well fucking done, Henry. 

Kicking whatever rocks he passed as he walked back up the Trosky grounds, like an upset child, Henry felt frustration well up in him again. 

Hesitation will be the death of you.

It was really getting annoying; why did he have to always worry? Always overthink? He didn’t want to burden Hans with any of it. He wasn’t used to asking to spend time with him, to initiate anything—back in Rattay, it was always Hans who’d find him, request his presence, ask for his help. Henry didn’t know how to do the same without just sounding like a yokel who doesn’t know what to do or how to pass time without his lord’s assistance. He just wanted them to ride out: abandon worries and titles, any duties. Just ease back into the comfort that Hans’ friendship gave him. 

Inhale in, exhale out. The weather was beautiful, indeed—and overthinking was bad for one’s health. 

What Henry needed was a plan: come up with things to do to, indeed, amuse himself. Not everything had to involve Capon. Not everything was about Capon. He should check Pebbles’ horseshoes, for one, and sharpen his sword, and fix that small hole in his coat. He could go to the stables to see Kabat and try to haggle for those lockpicks again, more to practice than out of any need for them; or, he could ride out, away from Trosky. Pick herbs or go read underneath that wide old tree. Ride down to one of the villages, find a boy to brawl with—make sure his right hook wasn’t getting rusty, and his shoulder is getting the warm up it needs. 

Suddenly, Henry remembered Von Bergow promised him some reward: told him to find his bodyguard. A knight, wasn’t it? Horseshoes could wait—in Henry’s experience, meetings with knights had the beautiful tendency to turn into duels quite easily; if there was one thing about Henry, it was that he would never let an opportunity to learn something pass him by. And who else better to learn from, than a knight, crossing blades? 

He made his way to the pen by the outer fortifications, feeling the sun biting his neck right above his collar; he could already imagine the sunburn incoming, and then the tan that would follow. He could already imagine Hans teasing him about it, too. 

Henry spotted the knight from afar—mostly because he was the only person standing by the pen, but also because he really, really did look like a knight. In full armour, in that summer heat: dark cuirass and heavy laminars, and plate legs that must have weighed a ton. Henry suddenly felt embarrassingly naked. 

As he walked up, the man noticed him as well, right at the edge of his vision: he turned his head just a little bit. He had harmonious features, something sharp about him; dark hair and dark eyes. He took the quickest look at Henry—entirely inconspicuous and casual—yet Henry, suddenly, felt even more naked. 

It wasn’t an entirely bad feeling, Henry realised.

“Good morning,” he nodded, “I was sent by Lord Von Bergow-”

“Ah, yes!” The man replied, smiling. It was a charming smile; perhaps a little bit mischievous. Courtly—confident. “Sir Hans Capon of Pirkstein’s escort, no?”

“That’d be me,” Henry felt two very surprising and conflicting things at once, battling within his chest. He could not name either of them, but, by God, they lunged at each other’s throats viciously, making his heart beat like a drum.

“Sir Otto gave me some background, and told me about the reward,” the knight added, “although, I think, not enough.”

“Hm?”

“Told me to give you one of our best weapons,” the man looked at him, curiously, “but did not tell me what sort of weapon you’d like, exactly.”

“Well,” Henry shrugged, trying not to think about how dark the knight’s eyes were. “I would not expect the Lord of Trosky to know what my weapon of choice is.”

“Has he not seen you fight?”

“No.”

“Hm,” the man let out and then did not say anything more for a short moment; he simply looked at Henry, smiling. “I have my guess but I will stop myself from presuming.”

“A longsword, if you have one?” 

A glimmer in the knight’s eyes; his smile deepened. His guess was correct.

“Ah, a true swordsman's weapon! Good choice!” He nodded and moved to walk past Henry, towards the guardhouse door. Henry wasn’t sure whether he should follow him or wait, and so he decided to stand in the same spot like a stone and try not to turn around to track the man’s every move. Was he wearing chainmail, too? It was so hot.

A hot day, Henry thought. A very hot day. 

“Now, there you go,” the knight presented him with the sword. “It’s nicely balanced, I’ve checked. Good thrust but still just as perfect for a cut.”

Henry took the weapon, weighing it in his hand—briefly, so as not to make it seem like he doubted the knight’s expertise—and then grabbed the hilt with both his hands, checking the grip and how much space for movement it would allow for. The blade was tapered differently than he’d prefer but it could be a good thing, too: an opportunity to learn. 

“Thank you,” he said after a short moment, satisfied with the examination and the weapon itself. When he raised his eyes at the knight, he met his gaze instantly: the man was watching him closely and curiously, and without as much as an ounce of pretending he wasn’t. 

“If you ever want to practice or test your combat skills,” the man shot him another smile, “I’m at your service.” He bowed his head, politely. “After all, any weapon is only as good as the man who wields it.”

Then, with the conversation fizzling out, the knight moved, again—and turned to walk away. 

Hesitation will be the death of you, rang out in Henry’s head in his own voice. Act.

“So,” Henry started, and the knight stopped in his tracks immediately. “Black Bartosch, is it?”

“Aye,” another smile. Polite—but verging, somehow, on a challenge. 

“I’m Henry.”

“Oh, I know. Pleased to meet you, Henry.”

“How did you end up at Trosky?” Henry asked, tucking his hands into his belt. He was suddenly surprisingly conscious of whether he appeared comfortable and casual enough.

“Sir Otto hired me in Prague as his bodyguard and a swordmaster for the local garrison,” Bartosch explained. It was very matter-of-fact and humble, without a hint of the bragging overconfidence Henry associated knights with. “I reckon he sensed he was in danger, and he was right.”

“You mean the bandits that attacked you?”

“Aye, on the way to a wedding, out of all places.”

Henry cleared his throat and shifted his weight to the other leg. He nearly blurted out he himself was at that wedding right away—which would be very, very unadvisable.

“A band of scoundrels was lying in wait for us on the road, and nearly got us,” Bartosch shook his head slightly. 

“What happened?”

“It was well planned, I must admit. They nearly got us,” once again, a statement of fact. Open, honest—no shame in it. 

“But they did not succeed.”

“Aye,” the knight looked away, to the horizon for a moment. “Maybe we were just lucky, and God was watching over us.”

“That’s it?”

“Well,” the knight looked back at him and, this time, some emotion bubbled up to the surface. “If you really want to know what I think, the idiots lacked discipline. They rushed it.”

Henry raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. 

“It might have come down to a single fool’s mistake, I don’t know. But if they’d just waited a bit longer, we wouldn’t have stood a chance… Like I said, I thank the Virgin Mary and all the saints for watching over us.”

“Your Lord got wounded. Did you?” Henry asked. As soon as he said it, he started wondering whether it was rude.

“Nothing egregious,” he replied, and did not elaborate.

“So, why do they call you Black Bartosch?”

The knight smiled, again, and shook his head slightly.

“You ask a lot of questions, no?”

“I think this one is entirely justified and should not surprise you in the slightest, no?” Henry answered with a question. He felt his confidence return a little bit—he fared better at banter than polite conversation. 

“There is this saying about a cat and curiosity…” Bartosch hummed, resting his armoured hands on the pommel of his sheathed sword. 

“There are many sayings about curiosity,” Henry shrugged, “and I bet all were coined by people who had a vested interest against people learning things.”

The knight laughed and leaned back against the wooden fence of the pen, visibly relaxed. 

“It’s just a nickname,” he explained, shrugging. “Because of my black hair,” he smiled, and it was, once again, a mischievous sort of smile. “Every swordsman has a nickname, you know. Once you win a few tournaments, they give you one.”

Henry’s mind suddenly escaped to Rattay—fighting in the humidity of the early summer, bleeding through his bandages, trying to prove himself. And no nicknames or titles to show for it, no?

The golden spurs, you ungrateful prick, echoed in his mind. Capon’s champion, don’t pretend you don’t remember…

Not everything has to be about Capon. Stop it, he scolded himself in his mind right away.

Henry cleared his throat.

“So you’re really a high-born knight?”

“Indeed. I am Bartoschek of Drahonitz. My father served Emperor Charles his entire life.”

“Oh, sorry,” an unpleasant wave ran down Henry’s sides. “I suppose I should call you Sir.”

Not. Everything. Has to be. About Capon. You prick.

“No, no!” Bartosch gestured with his right hand. “No need for formalities, Henry. Titles are worthless. A man should earn a name for himself. It’s not enough to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth.”

“That’s a refreshing perspective.” A wave of relief, pleasurable like a breeze on a hot day. Henry’s overthinking quieted down again.

“A rare one, nowadays, sadly,” Bartosch agreed. Then, he eyed him slowly. “Listen, Henry, the sun is high in the skies and it’s hot like in the devil’s cauldron. How about a practice fight? If not, I either need to find some shade or go shake off some of this steel.”

“A practice fight sounds great,” he replied. He felt his heart beat a little faster and focused very hard on the fact that it must have been his love for learning making him excited at the prospect, and nothing else.

“But, I don’t do unarmoured,” Bartosch said, and then a shadow of a smile appeared on his face. His eyes got a little bit darker for a fraction of a second. “Well, I do. But in this case I’d suggest you go put some armour on and then return to me, and we’ll fight.”

“Aye. I’ll be back in a moment, if you are indeed willing to wait.”

“I am!” the knight replied, smiling. “I’m curious how well you fight, given you’ve gotten all this praise from Lord Otto and he hasn’t even seen you wield a sword.”

“Hm,” Henry, turning around, kept his tone as purposefully neutral as he could, “and here I thought there was this saying about a cat and curiosity…”

Black Bartosch laughed, watching him walk away. 

Henry got back to his chest and got his armour out: it wasn’t a full plate—nothing even near what he wore when they set out for Trosky—but it was a decent set, and in good upkeep. Perfect for a practice fight. When he was putting it on, he kept thinking about the fact that getting into a full set of plate armour was definitely a task for two people; yet, as he wasn’t a knight or a noble, he himself usually had to do it alone. The first time he wore a full cuirass, he struggled for an hour with the buckles of the breastplate—in the barn at the Rattay mill, hoping Peshek wouldn’t find him and laugh his ass off. He should have just asked Theresa for help but somehow it escaped him back then. 

Once he was done with all the buckles and fastenings, he got his new longsword and set out to return to the pen. He tried to walk slowly—unbothered, unaffected—but for some reason his feet carried him much faster than usual. His chest was buzzing with excitement and a strange, rather unknown anxiety: he really did not want to lose. And not just out of pride, like with many of his previous duels, or simply being stubborn, or the combination of the two, and out of spite as it was with Capon back in Rattay— not everything has to be about Capon, you prick— but more out of… Well, Henry wasn’t sure. He knew losing also carried value: it would allow him to learn something new, like he had many times before each time he lost. But he really, really didn’t want to lose this time. He really wanted to make a good impression; the depth of that need made him both giddy and slightly embarrassed. 

And he wanted to win for himself this time—himself. Not survival. And not his lord’s honour and glory either.

God merciful, he growled at himself in his thoughts, not everything has to be about Capon. 

Fidgeting with the fastening of his heavy glove, he felt his feet carry him towards the pen on the outer fortifications with twofold force—recalcitrance, even—carrying both excitement and dread in his heart at the prospect of the duel with that dark, fascinating knight. 

He was so focused on it, in fact, that he absolutely and shatteringly did not notice—right there by the gate to the smithy in the inner courtyard—the young lord of Pirkstein, half-way through a fairytale-worthy red apple, waving at him with excitement in the corner of his eyes.

That’s a rotten fucking feeling, Hans thought to himself as Henry passed him, ready to push it so deep down and ignore it with so much force it would turn to a bitter clump of coal in the depth of his heart. The apple—sweet and crisp and perfect just a second ago—suddenly tasted horrid on his tongue. He spat out the last bite and threw the half-eaten fruit haphazardly to the side; no longer his problem. Then, he shrugged, as if someone could see him, raised his chin high and decided to go to the baths.

It wasn’t a proper bathhouse, of course—right under the Trosky kitchen, by the smithy, the small room that smelled of lavender and soap couldn’t rival as much as the tiny, musty baths at Ledetchko, let alone something more serious. But, still, baths were baths; he could get his clothes laundered and his soul soothed and, most importantly, his cock touched in a way that did not require him to worry about any consequences. Because, frankly, between the journey to Trosky and the ambush at the pond and the feverish escape from the bandit horde, and the blood-smeared stay at Bozhena’s and the ridicule at the castle gate, and the Troskowitz brawl, and the Semine wedding, and the stupid bailiff’s son and some random village girl with her swirling skirts and the fucking egregious cell, God merciful and all the Saints, he deserved some fucking release! 

The common denominator of it all Hans made sure to swallow down like his pride and ignore until the Judgement Day. 

Well, he clearly didn’t ride out, Hans thought as he made his way through the Trosky grounds—decidedly not in any way towards the baths. He put on all that stupid armour for what reason, exactly?

God, if he could, he’d just grab him by the collar of his shirt and make him explain. Tell him everything— and make him apologise, too. But of course, Henry wouldn’t just come clean: he wouldn’t just openly say anything. He’d joke or say something with a double meaning, or he’d shrug and lie that he didn’t know; all while keeping up this horrid facade of utter innocence. 

Well, I see you, Hans thought to himself. You can’t pretend to be innocent with me. 

Before he could fully realise what he was doing, Capon was on his way to the outer fortifications; stalking Henry’s heavy steps like a fancy hound on the bored nobles’ hunt. In his mind, he was going towards the cask of wine he knew rested open and aired sweetly by the guards’ dice table.

In his heart, however, he tried very hard not to think about the fact that he was, for all intents and purposes, simply going after Henry. Luckily, Hans Capon of Pirkstein simply loved to lie to himself when it came to that one particular man, and he had weeks upon weeks of practice at that point. 

He heard them before he saw them. His heart, vile little thing, started beating faster against his better judgement. One voice, familiar to the point of pain, heavy with the slightly crude melody of Skalitz—the other, reined in, mastered, flowing like the Vltava river.

Of fucking course, instead of killing time like any normal man would, he’s there to duel. 

“You must’ve been honoured when the Royal Chamberlain chose you as his bodyguard,” Henry said, once again making sure the buckle by his pauldron was fastened. “How did that come to be?”

“That’s simple,” the knight smiled, and Hans could hear the way his mouth curled underneath that moustache from a mile away, “I was serving in the garrison in Prague’s royal castle, where Von Bergow was… A frequent guest.”

“Alright, I see,” the reply sounded out as Henry sighed in frustration: the buckle by the gauntlet did not want to tick into position. “But what brought you to his attention? You have good connections, I suppose?”

Hans walked up, much quieter than he’d ever admit to being, to the cask of wine by the pen. He was both glad and infuriated neither of them spotted him. 

“Depends what you mean,” the knight shrugged, as if he didn’t know what Henry meant. “I’ve recently won two big tournaments, so I was invited to a splendid banquet.”

“I see.”

“It was there Sir Otto offered me the position at his castle… I’d heard of Trosky, of course, but I was still astonished when I saw it with my own eyes.”

“It is a mighty fortress.”

What a dull and insipid conversation, Hans thought to himself, grabbing a wooden tankard. Unnoticed, still. 

“Uh,” he heard Henry hesitate; he felt a shiver down his neck at the fact that this moment of hesitation had nothing to do with him. “Bartosch… Sorry, but we’re about the same age, and I’d never have guessed you’re a swordmaster.”

“We each have our path, it seems,” the knight replied, checking his sword against the sunlight to make sure it was sharp enough. “I even studied at a university, back when I could still afford it.” Then, he smiled again, and shook his head, looking at Henry.

Hans downed the whole tankard in one desperate gulp. 

Henry looked up at the knight, lowering his own sword that he was in the process of weighing in his hands again. 

“You’re a man of letters, too?” The impressed note in Henry’s tone was obscene and stupid. 

“I dabble in some poetry, that’s all,” Black Bartosch laughed softly—it was a ridiculous sort of laughter. Henry still struggled with the buckle. 

Silence fell for a moment—Hans, still unnoticed to his absolute chagrin, poured himself another cup of wine. 

Suddenly, the knight closed the distance between himself and Henry in one confident stride—and reached out, entirely casually, to fasten the buckle on his armoured glove. His hand grabbed Henry’s wrist; the other went for the glove. Henry yielded, grateful for the assistance. They exchanged polite smiles—and glances—and nothing was said at all, as if that gesture was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Ridiculous, Hans thought. So fucking stupid. Idiotic.  

He thought, suddenly, about each time he saw Henry in full armour—plate, catching the rays of sun, slightly dented after all the near experiences with death, yet still shining, well taken care of. He thought how he himself always needed a page or a servant to get into a get up like that. Did Henry always have to do it himself? Alone?

Doesn’t matter, who cares, he thought, another wave of wine down his throat. What a swill, too. 

And yet, as the two men in the pen prepared to clash—taking their sweet time, too—Hans’ mind filled with the memory triggered by thinking about armour. The memory of seeing Henry, in Rattay, one morning; that day Henry did not notice him either. Hans was glad: he was returning from one of his nightly escapades, sporting a nasty cut on his forehead from where he hit his head against the window frame, running away from the wench’s sweetheart who got home just a little bit too early. 

Henry was riding through Rattay, slowly, greeting someone from the saddle—it was at a point when he was already quite well known in the town, even though he still slept at the inn and was just that boy from Skalitz that the lords took in to run their errands— and Hans watched him greedily. He was wearing a dark brigandine with a blue combat jupon thrown over it, clearly stitched, and with one deep blood stain under the armpit that he couldn’t get out; whether he was even wearing a hauberk, Hans couldn’t tell. His mailcollar, mismatched, slightly rusty, dug into his throat a bit too deeply: his neck was dark with dirt and the splatter of old blood, and stubble he had no time to shave on the road. There was a smear of fresh blood on his cheek where water didn’t reach when he cleaned himself by the trough before entering the town. 

Got jumped by bandits, again, eh, Henry? Someone asked, patting Pebbles on the side. Oh, you know how it is, Henry laughed, they never learn! Well, they’re in God’s hands now. Hans recalled the first, strange sting in his heart—one he quickly and embarrassingly recognised to be pride; all that blood and dirt and steel and Henry stood, once again, undefeated. Laughing. That sting then bloomed into a full fire when he heard the rest of their conversation. You’ll come play dice with us tonight, right? You’ll lose your shirt this time! The stranger laughed. Tomorrow, maybe, echoed in Henry’s voice throughout Hans’ mind, tonight my lord needs me. Sir Capon, that is, Henry quickly corrected himself, and smiled, and said his farewells, and rode by—leaving Hans, lurking in the corner, feeling like someone poured a bucket of boiling water over his head. 

And weeks later—two, maybe three—a sunny, bright morning, as Hans made his way to the Upper Castle, and saw Henry for the very first time in the full plate set he won at the tourney. Gold-trimmed and grand, shining in the sun, armour truly befitting a knight… Yet, what etched itself into Hans’ heart and memory the most, to a degree he would never dare admit to, was the fact that the armour carried his crest. It was intoxicating, seeing Henry like this, in the Lords of Leipa armour. 

His colours. His.

The first loud ring of clashing swords cut the air, pulling Hans abruptly from his memories. He slowed down with the wine—the last thing he needed with all these swirling emotions was getting wasted—and sat down on the wooden bench, beneath the shade of the tent, to observe the stupid duel. 

He hoped Henry would kick the knight’s arse. He also hoped Henry would lose, and bitterly. He would like to see both of these scenarios, and he would also like not to think about what it meant at all. 

Henry led—as always—with a quick, powerful strike right against the knight’s ox guard; the blades clashed as the knight deflected most of the force, stepping quickly forward and to the left. Henry pushed again, from the left, and once again his hew was set aside. Then, again: this time the force of a third consecutive push was enough to slightly throw the knight off balance: forced him to take a step back, shift his weight as he moved into the plough guard, ready to attack. In the broader strikes, Hans could see the lessons of Captain Bernard that took root and stayed with Henry.  But he also watched Henry’s footwork closely: it was a bit messy, slightly off, the most telling mark of a self-taught warrior. 

I should tell him, at some point, Capon thought. He’d hate that. 

As the knight attacked, Henry parried the strike swiftly, turning the knight’s weapon with the point of his sword; in the time the knight needed to raise the longsword again, Henry pushed with his body, throwing him further off balance. The knight nearly stumbled, bringing his sword closely as if to regain balance with its weight. Henry then attacked, a long and fast stride forward and a narrow strike to the knight’s chest. Hans huffed, stopping himself from shaking his head and yelling out: it was so clearly a trap, and Henry did not see it until it was well too late. The knight parried the strike with the strong part of the blade, surprising Henry and pushing his weapon to the side—then, just as Henry managed to raise it, the knight pushed; the blades bound in a clinch and Henry, once again, leaned naively into his confidence about having more brute strength. 

Hans nearly groaned out loud: the trap was so obvious.The knight yielded, for a moment, letting the blades press against his breastplate—then, with twofold force he pushed back just as Henry broke focus. Henry grunted, low and breathy, frustrated: the force of the attack sent him stumbling three steps back. A cocky smirk appeared on the knight’s handsome face—Hans clenched his jaw, grimacing with disdain.

They crashed against each other again: in the heat of the sun, even a short duel in near full armour was demanding to the point of utter exhaustion, and Hans knew the next three or four movements would decide the winner. It was clear they both were getting tired: the air was filled with the ringing clashing of steel and heavy breathing, interwoven with grunts and hisses as weapons or armoured gloves made impact against body. 

Hans stood up, quietly and still unnoticed, and poured himself another tankard of the warmed wine; then, instead of sitting back down, he took a couple of steps towards the pen, curiosity getting the best of him.

Henry rushed forward, again, despite his muscles already howling with pain and sweat rolling into his eyes and blurring his vision. He pushed against the knight strongly and decisively, rattling him with the power of two well-aimed strikes against plate. The first strike was standard, maybe slightly off tempo. It was the second one that gave Hans pause: he knew it, and it wasn’t Captain Bernard’s teachings…

Hans swallowed, feeling something strange overcome him. In that second strike, he saw himself; his own technique, his movements, his rhythm. He never thought Henry watched him closely when he fought—let alone that he would learn from him. 

Shaken by the strikes, the knight was forced to take a step back. He moved his left leg behind to steady himself—and it was then that Henry, pressed hard into his side, followed by stepping behind the knight’s leg. Quickly, he placed his sword across the knight’s, driving his blade back: and threw him across his leg. If this was a fight to the death, Henry would push him much harder, making him fall onto his back—and drive the point of his sword through his throat.

But in that pen, Henry simply looked for a clear signal of yielding: he tipped him back, forcefully. They stood there, their bodies clinched like swords: the knight uncomfortably in Henry’s tight grasp, leaning back and having to keep balance with all the strength of his tensed muscles—and Henry, inches away from his face, scanning it hungrily like a dog; waiting to hear the fated words. Without the ring of steel, their heavy breathing filled the air even more; it echoed in Hans’ mind relentlessly. 

Henry’s gaze fell to the knight’s half-open lips—panting with exertion—and his eyebrows furrowed at his stubbornness. Hans felt nearly nauseous. 

The knight’s lips curled up in a slight smile. He was just about to say what Henry was waiting for—when for some reason, Henry’s blue eyes stopped being fixed on his face, instead turning, suddenly and swiftly, right to Hans.

Whether Henry knew he was standing there before or was surprised, Hans couldn’t tell; his face did not betray anything. 

Still holding the knight tipped back over his armoured leg, forcing him into submission in the heat of the summer sun, Henry held Hans’ gaze. Stubbornly and brazenly; breathing low and heavy. Then, he pushed his blade harder against the other, pressing air out of the knight’s lungs—his eyes fixed, relentlessly still, on Hans.

“Yield, I yield!” Even as the knight coughed out his surrender, armoured bodies pressed against each other, Henry still held Hans’ gaze. There was something hungry and dark in his eyes; something that made Hans’ heart beat desperately fast and hard in his chest. He’d seen glimpses of it before—but never dared to look for too long. Then, a fraction of a second later, that something was gone. 

Henry looked back at the knight, who regained his balance gracefully as soon as Henry let go of him.

“That was quite something, Henry, I’m impressed,” the knight shook his head, laughing. 

“You nearly got me there, with that feint,” he replied, grinning, stretching his shoulder.

“Oh, yes, we need to work on that. You seem to always charge so firmly… Sometimes you need to switch from unyielding to yielding.”

“Hm?”

“Hard and soft, Henry? Basics of the craft!”

“Well, then you’ll have to teach me.”

“So I shall, and happily!”

They kept talking, paying no attention to Hans anymore— thank God.

Hans finished the tankard in one big swig and put it aside, trying not to think how his hands shook as he did so. Then, he walked away, slowly, as if entirely unbothered: the duel was done and there was nothing more to observe, after all.

His hands still shook as he walked across the Trosky grounds aimlessly: Henry’s dark and hungry gaze burned into his mind like a brand. 

Henry was exhausted—but filled, to the brim, with excitement and confidence. They fought for hours: switching, quite quickly, to practice weapons and casting aside some of their plate under the relentless attack of the burning sun rays; they went head to head, too. Just as Henry suspected, losing to Bartosch always carried value: there was always a lesson to be learned, a tip from a more experienced swordsman shared with a smile, a technique perfected under his watchful eye. Additionally, as Henry realised quite quickly, it didn’t feel half bad, either. 

Once the sun started nearing the horizon, they parted ways; Black Bartosch bowed his head courteously and somehow, despite being entirely wet with sweat, hair stuck to his forehead, still looked incredibly knightly while doing so. There was a level of respect there, too, despite how casual their conversations became, that Henry enjoyed immensely. 

On his way back to his room—desperate for the release of taking off all that armour—Henry remembered he hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. And he did not eat much for breakfast, either, standing there awkwardly alone and hardly being able to swallow his bread worrying whether Capon was mad at him.

He could stop by the main kitchens—but he didn’t want to deal with all the people he knew could be there, and one particular person he suspected would be there for sure given the young cook smiled at him earlier in the day and blushed. Therefore, he passed the smithy, threw his sword on his bed to avoid entering the small guard kitchen with a weapon and getting chewed out for it again, and only then made his way to the stairs. If the old cook wasn’t there, he’d probably just nick some food and take it back to his room. And then he’d absolutely have to go to the baths: fighting in the sun made him sweat so much he was sure everyone could smell him from a mile away. 

And because Henry was born under an unlucky star, the second he approached the wooden stairs above the small baths, two things became apparent: one, the baths were closed. Two, Hans was standing by the door, clearly disappointed at that fact—barely stopping himself from kicking the door in frustration. 

“Just my fucking luck,” Capon muttered under his breath; he hadn’t spotted Henry yet. For a moment, Henry debated whether maybe he should just sneak by. 

All that armour he was wearing, however, quickly reminded him sneaking by would be near impossible. Not to mention the smell. 

Hans turned around, suddenly aware he wasn’t alone; his eyebrows shot up for a second and he had to force himself to return to a more neutral expression. 

“Can you imagine, baths closing before sunset? How ridiculous,” he said, crossing his arms and looking at Henry expectantly. 

“Aye, Sir Hans,” Henry agreed.

I’m sure you needed the baths for laundry, Henry thought bitterly. 

“For all the magnificence of Trosky, that’s a downright painful and outrageous oversight,” Capon kept complaining. He avoided looking at Henry, for some reason. 

“Dangerous one, too,” Henry added. “If Von Bergow summoned us now, I don’t think we’d fare all that well between your frustration and my state.”

“My what? I’m not frustrated, Henry,” Hans replied, frustrated. “I just really need my clothes laundered. Wouldn’t mind a hot bath either, to relax. Simply.”

“Aye.”

“But you are correct,” Hans continued, arms crossed. “We’d have to open all the windows in his chambers if he wanted to talk to us. You.”

“What a tough conundrum,” Henry laughed, suddenly, “usually you’d follow your noble complaint about how I reek with sending me to the baths. But what now, my lord?”

Defeating the knight that many times that day truly filled with dangerous levels of confidence—he didn’t even have the time or care to overthink his words. Hans raised his eyebrows once more, and the setting sun must have played tricks again, making it look like his cheeks flushed a bit. 

“Well, there are more baths in the region than just here,” he replied sourly. 

“Aye, that’s true. But with the sun setting, it is too late to leave for Zhelejov and return before they close the gates here,” Henry said, his voice still too cocky for his own good. “And I wouldn’t want to cause a scene, pounding at the gates after midnight, using my lord’s name in vain to be allowed in.”

That instance of my lord felt even better to say than Henry expected. 

“You could always return in the morning,” Capon shrugged, very purposefully avoiding Henry’s gaze. “God knows you’d find something to do at the baths until sunrise.”

“More than one thing, knowing the girls there,” Henry grinned, and there was something unbearably sharp and teasing in that smile. “But I wouldn’t want to leave my lord here without any escort or protection for the whole night.”

Hans cleared his throat and didn’t say anything for a longer while. 

“Luckily,” Henry continued, “I lack the noble sensibilities that would keep me from simply washing in the water trough, so I will be alright. You, on the other hand, my lord, will have to seek your hot bath elsewhere. And the laundry, of course, pressing matter that it is.”

Hans shot him an angry look—genuinely angry. It reminded Henry immediately of the first time he saw him, in that room with Radzig and Hanush and the priest: so fucking upset that a peasant like him was allowed into Radzig’s service.

In a second, Hans' furious expression eased; instead, a shadow of a self-satisfied smile appeared. 

“Well, speaking of your lack of noble sensibilities, I assume you must know of some spot by a river or stream where you have stopped to bathe, hm? During your many adventures before the wedding,” Hans said, cocky and smug. “Or am I wrong and you just never bathed, before you had coin enough for the bathhouse?”

Henry clenched his jaw. 

“Aye.”

“Well?”

“There’s a small waterfall by the stream near Tachov,” Henry said, his voice defeated. “It’s indeed close enough for me to make it there and back before the gates close.”

“See? This wasn’t so hard, was it? I can’t have my escort wash himself in the water trough, for God’s sake.”

“Am I allowed to grab some food, my lord, or am I ordered to ride out immediately?” The question came out harsher than Henry intended—but, to his surprise, Hans was entirely undeterred by his tone. 

“Grab something quickly and pack it,” the young lord replied, gesturing vaguely. “We’ll ride out and camp by the water. You’ll eat then. I’d rather not waste time if we’re to make it back before the curfew.”

We?

“Did you get knocked on the head too many times today, duelling, Henry? Or are you suddenly hard of hearing?”

Henry shook his head.

“I’ll be back in a second, then.”

“Good. I’ll wait by the horses.”

“Aye,” he nodded, making his way up the stairs to the kitchen.

“And Henry?”

“Yes?”

“Take your sword, if you don’t mind? Or you’ll be an entirely useless escort once we leave the Trosky walls. Can’t believe I have to tell you that.”

“Well,” Henry shrugged, stopping on the steps, “I will take it, obviously. But I could protect you, my lord, even without any steel.”

“Ha, sure,” Hans replied, already turning to walk away towards the stables. “With what, your bare hands?”

“Teeth, if need be,” Henry said, and his voice was a bit lower than he intended. Hans did not turn around to look at him. “Steel is easier to parry than a guard dog’s bite.”

“Well, that would certainly surprise whoever would be stupid enough to attack us,” Hans replied, already walking away. He replied very fast; eager to deflect. Eager not to think about it too long. “Anyway, uh, do hurry up.”

“Aye, my lord.”

At this point, even Henry himself knew saying my lord in that indecent tone should earn him a damn whipping. 

The skies were fiery with a deep, orange sunset as they rode out of Trosky. It was still incredibly hot; hours separated them from any evening cooling breeze or dew.

Hans allowed Henry to overtake him slightly as he was the one who knew the route to the bathing spot. Looking at him sneakily, he could see how he leaned in the saddle, trying to take some pressure off the shoulder—he did take off some of the plate before they left, but decided some armour was needed anyway, just in case, and so his movements were burdened with that weight still. For some unbearable reason, Hans’ mind was still echoing with one vision: how each time Henry put on all that armour, he had to do it alone. 

The young lord shook his head slightly to rid himself of that pestering thought. 

“...Or not,” Henry said suddenly. Hans raised his head and shifted in the saddle, surprised.

“Huh?”

“You weren’t listening at all, were you?” He asked, slowly shaking his head. “Here I was, accused of getting knocked on my head too many times… But it seems it’s you who’s hard of hearing.” Henry laughed—loud, barking laughter, at ease—and Hans felt some of his worry dissipate.

“Well, my mind was elsewhere, apologies.”

“What was that?” Henry turned in the saddle. Pebbles neighed, annoyed. 

“What?”

“That last word… Was that Latin? It sounded foreign.”

“Very funny, Henry,” Hans narrowed his eyes. “I’m not incapable of apologising, and you should be the one person in the whole world to actually know that.”

“Mhm,” Henry smiled. “That’s true.”

They rode in silence for some time; it was a pleasant silence, easy and familiar. 

“So…” Hans started, purposefully letting his horse slow down. “All that duelling, how did that go?”

“Oh, it was great,” Henry replied, honestly, “Black Bartosch is an incredibly skilled swordsman. I’m glad I had the chance to fight him, really, I learned more today than I have during a dozen of random skirmishes over the past however many weeks.” 

“You expose your left flank way too much each time you step back after a parry.”

“Oh,” Henry raised his eyebrows, turning in the saddle to look at Hans again. Pebbles grunted, again. “How so?”

“You take too big a step back, and your foot is positioned incorrectly. It’d be very easy to exploit that. You’d lose your balance quickly.”

“Well, I didn’t lose my balance today.”

“Perhaps Von Bergow’s bodyguard went easy on you, that’s all,” Hans shrugged. He really wondered why he had to be cruel—it was so petty and unnecessary, and yet pitifully stronger than him. 

“I don’t think he did, no,” there was a harsher note in Henry’s reply, “and besides, I won the first duel. That must count for something.”

“Stroke of luck, perhaps.”

Why do you have to be like this? Hans scolded himself in his thoughts, feeling a bitter aftertaste fill his mouth. None of this is his fault. Jealousy is so ugly. It makes you so ugly. 

Henry didn’t reply for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was bitter—but more melancholic than upset or angry. 

“I don’t think so. I’m not a particularly lucky person.”

“Ha, bullshit,” Hans rebutted immediately; realised how rude it sounded only when Henry turned his head away, pretending to look at the horizon. “I mean, how come? Anything I can think of, with you, seems incredibly lucky.”

“Sure, my lord,” he replied. Hans’ gut twisted into a knot at how sad Henry sounded suddenly.

“You survived Skalitz, didn’t you? When nearly everyone else died there, and horrifically at that!”

Henry didn’t say anything; didn’t look at Hans. Still, Capon could see how hard his jaw clenched. 

“Alright,” the young lord cleared his throat. “Admittedly, bad example.”

Henry shrugged—it was clear he was stopping himself from replying. 

“But! That sweetheart of yours saved you in the nick of time, from those thugs back when you went to bury your parents. Brought you to us. That’s lucky, no?”

“I don’t owe that to any luck,” Henry shook his head. “I owe it to Theresa.”

“Alright, sure.”

“Calling it luck diminishes the feat that it was. She saved my life.”

“Alright!” Hans gestured defensively. “She can’t hear you, you know? You don’t have to sing her praises.”

He meant it as a silly thing to say to break the tension—it backfired. 

“Hollow praise to get under a wench’s skirts is mostly a noble pastime,” Henry said, bitterly. “I’m being honest about something not fit to be joked about.”

And you’re surprised that he prefers strangers over you? Hans’ thoughts were relentless. That he prefers to duel for hours than spend even a minute with you, unless he’s ordered to? 

“You escaped Vranik, basically unscathed, and warned us of Toth’s machinations.”

“Unscathed?” Henry laughed under his breath. It was a bitter, rough laughter. 

Hans felt an uncomfortable wave go over him. 

“No?”

“I was tortured for hours, Hans, but sure. Let’s call it luck.”

Capon felt nauseous, suddenly. He didn’t know that. No one told him.  

“I… I didn’t know, Henry.” He prayed it couldn’t be deciphered from his tone—the extent to which it shook him. 

“And what Istvan and Erik did, you don’t even-” Henry clenched his jaw again; if he wanted to say something more, Hans couldn’t tell. The silence that fell was horrid.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” Hans said, surprising himself. “I really didn’t know. No one told me.”

“Why would they?” Henry asked, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“What do you mean, why would they tell me? You’re my,” Hans gestured, “you’re-”

You call him your guardian angel when you joke and your favourite when you fantasise about him fucking you, and when you’re supposed to be honest, nothing comes to mind?

Hans swallowed, hard, painfully aware of each second passing in tense silence. 

You’re such a bitch, it’s sad.

They passed Tachov and approached the line of trees. The skies were orange and still bright; the heat licked at their exposed necks. 

Henry cleared his throat, shifted in his saddle—then, he sighed, clearly fighting with himself. 

“Did you take the clothes you wanted laundered?”

“Pfft, no,” Capon replied, the relief as Henry broke the tension making him dizzy. “That can wait until tomorrow. If the baths don’t open by then, I will walk up to the tower and make chamberlain Stuffenberg himself launder it.”

“That I’d like to see,” Henry replied, his voice no longer heavy with sadness. 

“So it’s just you and me getting into the water,” the young lord added as they slowed down. “I’d go first and you can camp and eat, and keep an eye on our things. We wouldn’t want a repeat of that whole pond shit that happened before.”

“Aye, that’s true.”

“And then-”

“Wait!” Henry hissed suddenly, silencing Hans with a quick gesture of his hand. Then, he got down from his horse and reached for the sword by his belt. Something moved in the bushes in front of them.

Hans decided to get down from the saddle as well; he hadn’t had the chance to fight from horseback with that particular steed yet, and he didn’t want to be unpleasantly surprised. 

Something moved again, ever so slightly—in the bushes behind them this time. 

“Fuck, Hans, get ready,” Henry said in a hushed tone. “We spoke of the devil and here he is. Welcome to your second ambush in the region.”

Hans only had time enough to unsheathe his sword before the bandits jumped out of the thicket. Luckily, they were nowhere near as armoured as the band that ambushed them at the pond. Unluckily: there were three of them. 

Henry took two of them on himself, immediately stepping to the side to block a direct path to Hans; the one who jumped out from the bushes behind them he had to leave for his lord to deal with. The first bandit fell quickly: his strike bounced back off Henry’s ridged breastplate, shaking him and throwing him off balance—with a quick cut aimed perfectly at his throat, Henry sealed his fate. The other one posed a bigger challenge: he cast aside Henry’s strikes multiple times, his reflexes quick and fluid. The first parry that Henry himself struggled to get in he had to use immediately to push forward; he managed to thrust, sharp point burying its way through mail. The bandit hissed—but persevered through the pain, and attacked again.

Capon didn’t have an easy task, either: the thug charging at him was wielding a heavy mace. One successful hit and Hans’ unarmoured body would be crushed painfully; thus, Hans had to keep his strikes broad and fast to control the space and not allow the enemy to get near enough to swing at him. Then, he remembered his own words, about shoddy footwork—and the quick, narrow strike he saw Henry perform that clearly mirrored his own. He lowered his sword, point to the ground—leading the opponent into a false sense of having the upper hand. The thug swung, straight at his head: and with the quick, graceful offline step Hans moved forward, and tilted to the side and slightly to the back. Then, faster than the other could understand what’s happening, he used the support of his other foot to drive through a strong squinting hew through his exposed shoulder. The bandit howled, his arm dropping limply, letting go of the weapon; he took a couple of steps back but Hans was fast, pushing forward and slashing downwards, through his thigh. The man fell back, bleeding profusely.

When Hans turned around, frantically looking for Henry, he saw him drive his sword right through the unarmoured man’s stomach—and use his leg to kick him off the blade. The body fell to the ground with a loud thud. 

“Are you alright?” Henry turned around, his eyebrows furrowed in grave concern. His face was covered with a splatter of blood. 

“Yes,” Hans replied, catching his breath. “Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck our luck, eh?” Hans laughed, wiping his sword against the grass. 

Then his heart started beating a bit faster when he saw Henry rush towards him: long, heavy strides, decisive and focused. There was that dark thing in his eyes, again—and fury. Cold fury, even scarier than just rage in the heat of the moment. 

The bandit behind him, bleeding into the path, was still holding onto his last breath: gurgling and wheezing. Hans wanted to say something—Henry’s sword was already sheathed—but before he had the chance, Henry passed him, fast like the wind, and stood above the man. Suddenly, blood and brains splattered at the cornflowers blooming by the road—as Henry finished off the dying man with a brutal kick of his armoured foot right to his contorted face. 

A cruel, wrathful mercy; ugly and honest. A peasant’s misericorde. 

Henry wiped his leg with the man’s brigandine and stretched his shoulder. Then, he looked back at Hans—whose mouth was slightly open, and his gaze dazed. 

“That shoulder Schielhau, you have to teach me that,” Henry said, his voice breathy and raspy from exertion. “That was impressive.”

“I-” Hans cleared his throat. “Of course. But it’s mostly footwork, so you’ll have a difficult task ahead.”

“Aye, aye,” he waved his hand. “I’ll  have to try my best, with an impatient teacher like you.”

“Impatient? I should be a patron saint of patience once I die, I’m that patient, ” Hans rebutted with a cocky smile. 

“I think Saint Augustine’s mother boasts that title, actually,” Henry said, looking at Hans with great focus again. “You’re not hurt?”

“No, I got the fucker before he could even get close.”

“Good.”

“Mother of Saint Augustine?” Capon asked as they returned to their horses. 

“Yes, Saint Monika. Don’t- Don’t get in the saddle, we can lead the horses there, it’s close. And in case we stumble upon some poor soul they left to keep watch somewhere, we can tell him where he’ll find his friends right away.”

“Alright,” Hans said, trying not to think about the corpses they left in the road. “Saint Monika… How do you even know that?”

“I learned at the monastery,” Henry shrugged. “You learn a lot of things there.”

“You have to tell me all about it one day,” he said as they walked into the forest. “It still seems nearly unbelievable that you actually spent time! In a monastery! As a monk!”

“It is funny if you think about it,” Henry agreed. 

Soon, they arrived at the small, hidden away spot: a babbling stream, pooling deep enough to reach up to their waists, and a small waterfall. The oranges in the skies started shifting to pinks: it would be dusk soon. Henry tied their horses and hauled two bigger stones to the clearing to act as places to sit, and started making a fire.

Hans stood there, for a moment, looking at him. He wondered how it was possible that this dark, dangerous look Henry got in his eyes could dissipate so fast and so fully it felt like it was never there. How he could look so casual, so innocent, just minutes after turning someone’s head to gore.

Mostly, however, he wondered about something else.

What is it, his own voice echoed in his head, with a cruel, mocking note. What is it about this darkness that makes you recoil so hard, and yet makes you want him to take you right there and then, against the tree, like an animal?

Hans felt horrified, for a second. He felt disgusted—with himself—and yet somehow… Steady. Aware. Honest with himself for the first time in a very long time. 

“Hans, if we don’t make it before they close the gates, it’ll be your arse getting chewed out by Von Bergow,” Henry laughed suddenly, kneeling over the wood he gathered for the fire, eating some dried meat. “Get in the water, what are you waiting for?”

Hans snorted; wanted to say something clever but his own tongue failed him.

“Am I expected to help you disrobe, my lord?” Henry teased.

“You are expected to be able to start a fire in less than it’s currently taking you,” Hans replied; then, not looking at Henry, he turned on his heel and started taking off his clothes. He was glad Henry was busy with the fire and did not look at him. 

Once he stripped down to his braies, he inhaled deeply and got into the water. He expected it to be colder—but somehow, as the air around them cooled, the water seemed warmer. 

“Oh shit, this isn’t half as bad as I expected,” he muttered to himself.

“Aye, well,” Henry replied, surprising Hans; he was sure he was too busy to hear him. “Most of the day, the sun reaches the water here. Warms it up nicely.”

As Hans turned around, he caught Henry’s gaze immediately: the fire was already started and Henry stood next to it, leaning casually against a tree with a flask in his hand.

Watching him.

“My lord doesn’t mind, I hope?” He gestured with the flask.

“What is that?” Hans was glad to have a subject to cling to, instead of thinking about Henry’s gaze on his skin.

“Beer.”

“Eh,” Capon shrugged, splashing his face with water. “Go ahead.”

“Why the eh?” Henry laughed, bringing the flask to his mouth.

“Well, it’s not wine.”

“I see,” he replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Peasant’s drink, beer, huh? Offends your noble sensibilities?”

“Ha, you prick,” Hans laughed. “It doesn’t, if you can believe me. Beer’s fine, it’s just that wine is better.”

“Of course.”

“And not because of the price or quality,” Capon explained, gathering water in his hands to bring it across his chest. It was a little bit colder than he thought a moment ago; sent shivers down his sides.

“Then why?”

“Gets you drunk in a better way.”

“I don’t think wine is that much quicker than beer.”

“Not quicker, Henry,” he shook his head, running his wet hands through his hair. “Better. It’s a better feeling! It’s truly a drink befitting the gods! Sets fire to your soul!”

“Soul?” Henry grinned.

“Mostly loins, aye,” Hans agreed, closing his eyes as water droplets rolled down his face. He wondered if Henry would allow himself to keep watching him; he hoped. “But soul, too.”

“Well, it’s beer tonight,” Henry shrugged. “I might have some mead, too, but it’s so sweet it will make your teeth hurt.”

“Mhm, let’s see.”

With those words, Hans moved and got out of the water; dripping wet. He walked up to the fire—still too small to provide much flame or warmth—and shivered.

“At least it’ll keep me warm, hopefully” he said, spreading his hands over the fire and only getting smoke in his eyes. Henry went to his saddlebag and returned with the bottle—and a towel. He passed them both to Capon and immediately started undoing his armour.

The towel was rough but clean; it smelled, unmistakably, of chamomile and mint. 

“You must have plenty of room in your pack if you’re carrying a damn towel, Henry.”

“Usually I don’t carry one,” he shrugged—and did not elaborate. Instead, he finished his beer in a quick, big swig: some of it rolled down his chin and his neck, through the dried splatter of blood, and disappeared in the half-undone shirt. Hans focused on his mead as if his life depended on it; then, even more so, as Henry took off his shirt and hose, and went into the water. 

The mead was indeed very sweet. It was also very strong. All Hans had that day was half an apple and a lot of spite. 

Henry exhaled loudly as he lowered himself into the water; then, he splashed it against his face and torso, wetting his hair completely. There was something entirely unbridled and unashamed in it—the cold of the water seemed to only energise him further, too. Hans could not help but stare: wet, the hair on Henry’s chest and forearms appeared even darker; he wondered how it’d feel to touch it. How it’d feel against his own skin. 

Hans put his shirt back on again, the evening air too cool against his bare chest to withstand even with mead. Then, he felt his stomach tighten into a knot again; he wanted to simply sit by the fire and drink, and not think.

Instead, all he could do was look at Henry—and think. 

It wasn’t even the looking that he was mad at; after all, he allowed himself to look plenty of times. He looked at Henry as he skinned the hares they hunted back in Rattay, watching hungrily how his skilled hands made quick work of it; he looked at the baths, when Henry sat down in the soapy water in front of him, between his legs. He looked at camp, on their way to Trosky, as Henry dressed in the morning: the firmness of his chest as he put the shirt on, the curve of his toned waist and the tempting softness of his stomach—dark trail of hair leading down into his braies. He watched him bathe before. Shit, he even watched him piss. 

It wasn’t the looking. 

It was the thinking. 

Looking was fine: it was just curiosity, and hunger, and lust. Hans had dealt with these all his life; he accepted them quite quickly as simply a part of it, and an inherent part of him. He had many vices—but many he did not act upon, and if there was indeed a God, that should count for something. The priests told him at some point when he was a boy that thoughts could also be a sin; Hans thought it was bullshit. Now, he started worrying.

He looked at many women throughout his life: some sneakily, some openly, some without any intention to pursue, and some that he had later consummated more times than a husband would his lawful wife. He looked at men, too, curious ever since he learned he could—but nothing really came of it. And Hans did not mind.

Until Henry. 

Because looking was just lust—but it was the thinking that doomed him. Not even imagining, not really. Fantasising, dreaming—stroking himself in the dark hours of the night to the thought of Henry’s hands pressing down hard against his back as he bent him over the bed or the table or whatever else his mind supplicated eagerly—even that was fine. 

But ever since he thought, foolishly and ridiculously: What if..? Ever since he thought, hopeless as he was: Maybe if I ask him, maybe he feels the same?

That was dooming. Damning. That was sin, indeed. 

Didn’t matter whether Henry was a peasant or a noble; a wench or a man. What mattered was that he was Henry—and he did not deserve to be corrupted and destroyed by someone as desperate and disgusting as Hans. He was the last person who deserved something so wretched. There was nothing Hans could offer him, beside himself in some small, stolen moments.

So: nothing.

Hans drank the mead, trying to look at his hands and nothing else. He started picking at the skin right next to his nails; it already stung, but it felt deserved.

“Throw me another beer, will you,” Henry yelled out, suddenly, among the loud splashes of water. “It is actually a little bit fucking cold, now that the sun’s set.”

Hans stood up without a word; he felt nauseous, and it wasn’t the mead. He grabbed another flask from Henry’s saddlebags—there were so many it took him a moment to know which one could be beer—and walked back to the edge of the water.

Then, Hans, barefoot and still just in his shirt and braies, walked into the water.

“I said throw, Hans,” Henry laughed. “You’ve already dried, don’t get wet again!”

He doesn’t even want you in the same fucking stream as him, Hans thoughts were merciless. Leave him alone. 

“Knowing your astounding reflexes, it’d just hit you on the head if I threw it,” Hans shrugged, simple cruelty soothing his overthinking a bit. “Be glad I’m debasing myself enough to fetch your booze for you.”

“Ooooh,” Henry laughed, again, shamelessly. He closed the distance between them in two quick strides, despite the cold water slowing him down; he was dripping wet and his braies clung so close to his body Hans could see the dark swirl of hair through the fabric. 

Fuck, was all he thought. 

“There is no need to be so prickly, my lord,” Henry said, grinning, as he took the flask from him. “It is not fetching my booze, it’s making sure your squire doesn’t freeze his balls off in the stream you made him bathe in. It’s in your best, noble interest, eh?”

It was always hard to wallow in misery when he had Henry next to him, bold and laughing; he had to look away. He wanted to walk away—but his own legs betrayed him. He stood there, in the water, a pace away from Henry; the pink skies reflected in the water as the thin branches of the weeping willow on the shore danced in the slight breeze. The moment would be so beautiful if it wasn’t so painful: Hans wanted to walk away but couldn’t. Wanted to say something and couldn’t. 

Wanted to look away from Henry—from his face, from the laughter in the corner of his eyes, from the smirk on his lips—but couldn’t. 

You’re too weak to even look away.

“You’ll get cold if you just stand like that,” Henry’s bright voice sounded out; his tone was joyful, slightly underlined with worry. He took half a step closer.

“You…” Hans felt a wave of cold overcome him, in tandem with some strange, unbearable sadness.

Henry stood in front of him, eyebrows furrowed slightly; smile still on his lips. 

“You have,” Hans hesitated, his voice faltering. “You have blood on your face.”

“Aye, well,” he laughed, “the towel took so much space I didn’t get to pack my mirror.”

Henry was still laughing when Hans raised his hand, slowly, to his face—and with the faint, trembling brush of his thumb, wiped the red smear off his cheek. For the young lord, the moment felt as if it lasted forever: until the moment he saw Henry’s blue eyes widen in surprise, and pulled back his hand fast as if he got burned against a flame. 

You’re insane.

“I don’t know if you’re technically my squire, actually” he said, suddenly, backing away in a panic. He walked, as quickly as he could through the cold water, back to the shore.

He sat down on the rock; cleared his throat, taking another nauseatingly sweet swig of the mead. He could feel Henry looking at him.

“Huh?” He was still smiling—but he was very confused, too. 

“Well, usually I wouldn't really pay much mind to it,” Hans shrugged, “but now that you’ve gotten close to an actual knight, I wouldn’t want you mentioning something that’s not technically accurate. Could make things awkward for you, that’s all.”

Henry drank the beer and looked at Hans, water up to his waist. He waited; the smile faded.

“Because he's an actual knight, right, Von Bergow’s bodyguard?”

“Yes,” Henry's voice was huskier than he expected; maybe it was the cold. “Noble, too.”

“See? That's even worse, given your situation, you know… I don’t know if you can be a squire if you’re not noble-born,” Capon continued; his voice empty and numb. “And it doesn’t seem like Radzig plans on changing that little fact any time soon, if at all.”

Silence fell; the waterfall seemed to get louder the longer no one said anything. 

“Did I do something?” Henry asked, suddenly. 

“What?”

“Did I do something? To offend you? To cause this?” His voice was so honest, Hans felt like his heart might stop. 

“I’m saying it out of concern,” Capon rushed to explain. He laced his fingers together so it wouldn’t be visible how bad they shook; his thumb was bleeding, skin picked raw. 

“Of course,” Henry replied, and turned his back to him. He focused on washing himself; again, nothing was said for a longer while. 

Hans finished his mead. It was sweet and strong and went to his head right away; the fire started to slowly die but he could not force himself to get up for more wood. 

It was Henry, dripping everywhere, who brought more branches: he incorporated them into the campfire as if they were some puzzle. Still, it paid off: among the slowly falling darkness, the fire woke up, casting warm light on their faces.

Henry stood over the fire—and over Hans sitting on the rock—warming himself. Instead of gesturing at Hans to pass him the towel, damp, as he packed only the one, he shook the water off his body over the flames like a dog. 

Hans forced himself to wince. It felt like holy water that the priests would use to bless him at Easter mass, and more; and it felt wretched and horrid as if the devil himself spat on him. 

“How’s the mead?” Henry asked, at last.

“Too sweet,” Hans lied. 

Again, silence fell. Hans did his best not to look at Henry at all. 

“It’s late,” Henry said, looking up at the first set of stars in the skies. “They’ll close the gates soon. Once I’m dry, we should go back.”

Of course he wants to be rid of you as soon as he can, Hans thought. He doesn’t want to get caught, past curfew, with you. 

“You were right,” Hans said, suddenly, his voice husky and gloomy.

“I tend to be,” Henry shrugged. “But… About?”

“Being unlucky.” His throat tightened when he said it. 

“Alright..?”

“The more I think about it, the more I have to agree,” Hans said, standing up suddenly and walking in the direction of his clothes, piled up by the tree. The second he left the fire, he felt cold. “You are unlucky.”

“Right,” Henry cleared his throat. “Is this-”

“You must have been born under a particularly unlucky star,” Hans continued, putting on his hose and his coat, standing in the shadow unconquered by the campfire. 

“Why?” Henry asked, uneasy with the fact he could not see his lord’s face. 

“That first time Hanush made you go with me, to hunt?” Hans’ voice nearly broke as he put on his shoes; fastened the belt over his hips, the weight of his sword threatening to make him sit down and weep like a child. 

“Hans..?” Henry’s voice was soft. 

“That’s shit rotten luck, Henry,” he raved, not daring to go back to the fire. He stayed in the dark, index finger digging into the wound above the nail bed of his thumb. “Me. That’s- That’s a curse, I’m pretty sure.”

“Hans-”

“Don’t you know some- Some flowers, against curses like that?” He asked, reproach in his voice. “You’re supposed to know things like that.”

He looked up, at last. Henry’s face, with the dancing shadows from the campfire playing on it, was contorted in what he could only recognise to be confusion. 

Disgust. Outrage. He hates you.

“Mead doesn’t sit right with you, does it?” Henry asked, trying to break the tension. 

“Fuck your mead,” Capon muttered, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword. “Get dressed, it’s late. We need to get back before they close the gates.”

“Hans-”

“After the breakfast fuck up, we can’t afford to test Von Bergow’s patience,” he huffed, walking up to his horse and feverishly undoing the knot. “Unless I have to remind you how big of an issue it was, the fact that you didn’t think to wake me?”

Henry just stood there, over the fire—shirtless, confused, unmoving. 

Hans grabbed the saddle, ready to get on; his horse shifted slightly, expectant. He turned his head towards the fire; towards Henry. 

“What are you doing? We’re going,” he spat out, and his voice was unpleasant. 

The silence was so heavy.

“I’m,” Henry hesitated. “I’m not going until you come back here, for a moment at least.”

“What the fuck for?”

“I want to talk to you…” he got out, at last, “but I want to see you when I do so.”

Hans huffed like an upset child and walked up to the fire, quickly, stomping. The sudden warmth was disgustingly pleasant on his skin—so was Henry’s gaze.

“Curse, Hans?”

“You don’t even know,” Capon whispered, his voice breaking. “If you knew-”

“Knew what?” Henry shook his head.

“Don’t- Don’t interrupt me!” His voice was higher by a tone, pointed. Shaking. “Insolent, all this talking back.”

Henry simply looked at him. 

“All of this, can’t you see?” He groaned in frustration. “If you had half the brain you think, you’d regret it.”

Moment of silence; loaded and tense. 

If you’re cruel enough, Hans thought feverishly. You’ll free him from this mess. You’ll free him from you. You’ll free yourself.

“That’s exactly what I thought, you know,” His thoughts got interrupted, suddenly: Henry’s voice was low and his gaze darkened as he looked at him, fixed on his face. “That I regret it, that’s what I thought.”

Of course. 

“When I prayed to God, back at the herb woman’s hut,” Henry continued, “that I’d rather have him take me than you.”

Hans swallowed. The shadows cast by the dancing flames made Henry look heartbreakingly beautiful. 

“When you lay there, nearly dying, because you saved my life. I didn’t sleep a second, watching you like a hound, chasing each time your chest raised with a breath so desperately,” Henry’s voice was rough. “Regret, Hans?! You saved my life. You hauled me, delirious, even though you could have left me. No one would say anything. No one would blame you. You could have left me to die and then commit to the task that Sir Hanush entrusted you with.”

“Radzig-”

“Radzig what? He’d be upset for a week, and he’d move on. You think he only has the one fucking bastard in the whole of Bohemia?”

Hans didn’t know what to say. 

“And-” Henry stopped.

The fire crackled, dying. A nightingale sang in the trees, somewhere far away. 

“We might be-” Henry hesitated, looking into Hans’ eyes relentlessly. “ This might be difficult, sometimes. But don’t dare think for a second that I don’t thank God each fucking day that I met you.”

Hans felt the sting of unwanted tears in his eyes.

“And now,” Henry added, softly, “let’s go. The dying flames bring too much smoke.”

“That they do,” Capon replied, sheepishly. He felt so embarrassed. “It’s the-” His voice broke.

“It’s the mead,” Henry nodded. “Apologies. That’s on me.”

“It makes me melancholic.”

“That’s alright.”

Hans waited, standing next to his horse and holding the reins awkwardly, as Henry put on most of his armour back. The rest he fastened to his saddle.
“Henry, I-”

Henry smiled, passing by him to get on Pebbles. 

“No need to say anything,” he whispered, so close to Hans’ face he could feel the warmth of his breath against his cold skin. His hand brushed against his cheek for a moment so short, Hans could have imagined it. “Next time, I’ll just bring wine.”

They got to the gates of Trosky just in time; the guards looked at them, sourly, but did not say anything. As they rode in to the stables, Henry looked at Hans: he was swaying in the saddle a bit, but not egregiously. The cold evening air sobered him up a bit—he left his melancholy at the waterfall. 

He helped his lord get down from the saddle—subtly, of course, as not to embarrass him further—and steadied him a bit, holding him by the shoulders.There was a sort of deep, dark expectancy in Hans’ bright eyes that Henry had to force himself to ignore. 

If I only could, I would. 

That whole time at the waterfall… All he could think about was Hans. Looking at his back, lean and muscular; most importantly, so strangely free of scars. Nobles rarely got struck on their backs, apparently—and yet, Henry’s mind rushed with visions of Hans’ back so different from reality it made him dizzy. Beneath his palms, pressing down hard. In front of him, stretched out, helpless and eager. The shoulders, the waist, the curve of his spine, arched. Then, the one scar he knew was there: arrow-deep, on his arse.

And so, his mind burned: Hans’ backside, a striking, red mark on it. Henry’s palm. His fingers digging into the flesh, drawing out moans and deeper, shaky breaths. Then, Hans’ pale throat, covered in lovebites deep as nettle stings; Henry’s strong hand curled around it, cutting the airflow out just a little bit. Just enough to make him buck his hips. Then, Henry’s hand finding its way between the unexpected softness of his thighs-

Therefore, Hans’ sudden cruelty at the bathing spot twisted the knife even deeper: caught in the middle of his indecent fantasies, Henry felt as if Capon looked right through him. Saw the nasty, difficult parts of him—and recoiled at the sight. Put him in his place, dog that he was. Deservedly. 

You’re in danger of crossing the line, echoed in Henry’s mind. Weeks old—yet fresh as a slap across his face, still. 

But that was alright. Henry knew where that line was; he decided not to cross it. He’d allow himself small, stolen moments—crude indecencies, hopefully unnoticed—but otherwise, he’d be sweeter than mead to his lord and more obedient than a hound raised from the pup. He’d yield. He’d back off. He’d respect that line, even if it felt like his heart was getting ripped out of his wretched chest each time. He wouldn’t let that dark, hungry thing out. 

“I’ll get to my room on my own,” Hans stuttered, bringing Henry out of his thread of thought. “But, uh, Henry…”

He waited, but Capon didn’t really know what to say.

“You, uhm… You sleep well, alright?”

Henry smiled.

“I will do my best, Sir Hans,” he bowed his head slightly.

“Aye,” the young lord muttered, turning towards the stairs leading into the tower. “Wake me for breakfast.”

“As you wish.”

“If I don’t- If I don’t open the doors, you’re allowed to barge in.”

“Aye.”

“And-” Hans turned to him, looking into his eyes for a second. “You-”

Henry waited. 

“Do you want-”

Henry felt his heart in his throat. It thrummed so hard he could barely hear Capon hiccup. 

“You don’t,” he suddenly continued, his tone bitter and defeated. “I know you don’t.”

“Hans?”

“No, no,” he smiled softly, laughing at himself. “That’s the mead talking. Pay it no mind. See you tomorrow, Henry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Goodnight.”

As Hans left, stumbling, making his way to his chambers, Henry stood as if cast in stone. He watched his lord walk away. 

He really wished he could have courage enough to break his leash—but he did not.

And so Henry walked towards the smithy slowly, trying to coax out some final bits of warmth out of the beer he drank; final bits of sweet haze against the harsh reality of being sober. He really wanted to get drunk; still, he knew it would be the worst idea. He could not trust his restraint. No vow he took in the dark, with only himself as his witness, would hold. 

Lying in his bed, looking at the ceiling, Henry got suddenly hit with the full weight of his exhaustion: the duelling, the fight, the bathing, and then the whole journey back to Trosky when he had to focus so hard on watching Hans cautiously. Control whether he didn’t sway in the saddle too much; whether there wasn’t anything lurking in the bushes. 

Hoping, so hard, that one day he would have courage enough to simply hold him through his melancholy. Instead of deflecting or joking, and running away with his tail between his legs—coward that he was. 

It scared him.

It scared him: the depth of it all, and the level to which he would be ready to debase himself if Hans asked him to. He blamed him for all his pursuits—calling shallow lust love right to his face—and yet he knew he’d do anything to be on the receiving end of it. He judged him for it and then yearned for it in those quiet lonesome hours. 

But mostly, he was scared that it would all end one day, and soon. That something bad would happen—or worse, that Hans would just get bored of him. Perhaps it was already happening, and he was simply kind enough to warn him. Why else would he start the whole noble-born subject, the whole squire thing? Why else would he mention it, if not to try and be kind, and give Henry enough time to accept the idea that he would be abandoned soon? That his place in the world—the place at his master’s side—was a temporary fancy.

A stroke of luck. 

Glad that he could not see the skies from his bed—and that cruel, unfortunate star he was born under—Henry fell into a heavy, dreamless slumber. 

Just a couple paces deeper into the grand Trosky grounds, Hans sat, in the dark, by the pen on the outer fortifications; too scared of his own thoughts to go to sleep. 

Henry allowed himself to sleep in: just a moment. He knew the big feast was to happen that evening, and so he didn’t worry about making sure he got to breakfast early—there’d be food enough throughout the day—and went there most to keep up the necessary appearances. 

When he got into the hall, he noticed his place, by Capon’s side, was taken; some noble woman that he didn’t know, slightly older, chatted politely with Hans over two basically empty plates. He looked around to find a different chair: Chamberlain Ulrich wasn’t there, most likely on account of his ulcer—and Von Bergow was leaving.

He passed Henry in the doorway—stopped him from bowing with a swift gesture of his hand. 

“Will you come to the feast tonight, Henry? You and your lord are both invited, of course.”

“Yes, of course.”

Sit Otto simply nodded, and left. Henry suddenly realised he didn’t know where to sit: he thought about sitting next to Black Bartosch, especially with Ulrich and Von Bergow gone—but he looked around the hall and he was nowhere to be found. 

It’d be strange if he left before his lord. 

The more Henry looked around for that dark figure, the more he felt his heart sink uncomfortably; lurking in the doorway was getting awkward. He really wanted to talk to him, too. 

“And who are you looking for, Henry?” Bartosch's voice reached him, suddenly, making Henry nearly jump. He was standing right behind him. 

“Curiosity, curiosity,” Henry tutted, keeping his voice low and trying to act unaffected. “Starting the day with questions already?”

“Ha,” Bartosch stood next to him, both hands on the hilt of his sheathed sword. Then, he tilted his face just an inch towards him. From afar it hardly looked like they even talked at all. “A man like me simply must be curious. Ask more questions than provide answers.”

“A man like you?”

“Well,” the knight said, smiling, “a bodyguard to an important lord.”

“Of course.”

“Now, did you just arrive? I haven’t seen you before I left.”

“I slept in,” Henry shrugged. “Why did you leave halfway through the meal?”

“Have you eaten?”

Henry turned his head towards him slightly, narrowing his eyes. 

“I asked you something first.”

“Well, technically, Henry, I asked you first and you did not reply. Are we to keep a tally?”

Henry muffled a laugh. They stood there, next to the doorway, as if they guarded the place—tall, armoured, and really good at keeping up appearances. If anyone looked at them, they’d be convinced they only exchanged some pleasantries; maybe, at best, discussed swords or hews or guards. 

“Speaking of tallies,” Bartosch started again. “We went head to head yesterday.”

“We did,” Henry replied, keeping his back straight and his chin high, fully leaning into the sudden feeling of guarding the door and overlooking the hall. 

“Then, as is the custom, I must ask you to come today again. A winner must be decided.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard of a custom like that, Bartosch,” he replied, trying not to smirk. 

“It is well known in Prague. You’ve not been to Prague?”

“No, but I’ve heard they have many customs there that are foreign to the rest of Bohemia.”

“Wenceslas’ doing, I’d say.”

“Perhaps.”

“Some are more worthy of trying out than others,” the knight said, his voice courteous and neutral. His dark eyes, however, betrayed him: there was a spark in them that Henry noticed right away. “So, will you come?”

“If my lord doesn’t require me, then yes.”

“Then I hope he doesn’t require you.”

Henry tilted his head slightly, looking at him. 

“Will your lord not require you?” He asked. 

“My lord requires me to test your mettle before we ride out to Nebakov,” the knight replied. “And so I have no choice. God sees my struggle.”

“I see, of course,” Henry stifled a laugh again. So did Bartosch. 

“But… Speaking of our lords…” the knight started suddenly, and cleared his throat. “If gaze alone could fell a man like lightning, I think I would be already dead, and have your lord to thank for it.”

Henry raised his eyes and looked across the hall. The noble woman was still talking—but Hans wasn’t listening. He was looking at them. More accurately, he was looking at Black Bartosch, and it was not a subtle gaze at all. 

“Good luck,” the knight whispered to Henry as he passed him, leaving the hall. “And I’ll be waiting, after noon. Wear plate.”

Henry slowly walked up to where they were seated; perhaps it was Black Bartosch’s influence, but he somehow felt more like a knight than he had any right to. He bowed, courteously, greeting the noblewoman—enjoying the way she smiled a little bit too much—then, as he straightened his back, hand over heart, he greeted Capon. 

“Is there something you wanted, Henry?” Hans’ voice was harsh.

There is it, Henry thought. Punishment, and nearly undeserved.

“I simply wanted to greet you, Sir Hans, and tell you I will be at the pen, should you require me throughout the day.”

He didn’t actually need to say that—but he wanted to. He wanted to see that weird shadow go over Capon’s bright eyes. He wanted to let him know: I’m not the one throwing a fit over something irrelevant. 

“Mhm,” Hans nodded and gestured with his hand. “Thank you, then, for that priceless information, and you’re dismissed.”

Henry nodded, bowed lightly again—sneaked in a slightly indecent smile towards the woman—and turned on his heel to leave the hall. 

“You are to pick me up for the feast in the evening,” Hans called out, suddenly, still keeping his voice stubbornly cruel. Some people at the table turned their heads; a conversation or two ceased in the background. 

“Of course, my lord,” Henry bowed in the doorway. In that split second as he straightened his back, he caught Hans’ gaze; he made sure to reciprocate it as obscenely as he could. 

Then, he left, deciding to keep himself busy with whatever tasks necessary—until noon.

Clouds gathered over Trosky, threatening to hook over the towers. The sudden change of weather brought much needed shade: in the pen on the outer fortifications, the two armoured men clashed, time and time again, now without the sun biting at their necks. 

“You need to swing the sword behind you quicker, Henry,” Black Bartosch panted. “Otherwise you leave yourself exposed for too long.”

“If the pommel was heavier, I’d swing it quicker,” Henry’s voice was raspy, “Give me your sword and I’ll show you.”

“What sort of a warrior blames his shortcomings on his weapon?” The knight teased, lips curled in a smile.

“A blacksmith,” Henry barked out as they bound their blades in a clinch, “who knows the pommel is too light.”

“You scoff at a gift from the Lord of Trosky?” Bartosch asked, inches away from his face.

“Only as it stands in the way of appreciating,” Henry grunted, pushing hard against him, “the gift I’m getting from you.”

With those words, he overpowered the knight in the clinch and quickly, masterfully brought his sword up, point aimed right at his exposed neck. 

Black Bartosch laughed, taking a step back and wiping the sweat off his forehead. 

“You tread a dangerous line with what you say about noble lords. You’ve never been whipped for that mouth of yours, have you?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure yet,” Henry replied, sheathing his sword. The pommel was indeed too light; the weight of the hilt not enough to provide satisfying counter-balance for the Kurzhaw swing. 

“You’d do well in Prague.”

“In their pillory?”

Black Bartosch laughed again, unfastening the buckles of his breastplate. 

“I’m spent, Henry, for now. Depending on what gets decided during the feast, we’ll have to find another opportunity for the yielding lesson.”

“The lesson being: don’t yield?”

“No,” the knight said, shaking his head and laughing again, “I told you, it’s how to receive your opponent’s strikes. How you deflect. How you… Guide your opponent’s blade.”

“Hm.”

“I told you, you always go hard, unyielding, charging like a bull. Often, what’s actually needed to win is to switch to yielding.”

“Well, then you’ll show me, next time.”

“I will. Now, dice?”

“Again? Weren’t you tired?”

“My swordhand is tired, Henry, but I can still throw with my left one. But if you’re scared of losing again, I understand.”

“If you wish to rile me up, you have to try harder.” Henry grinned, turning around to walk to the dice table. “I’ll win that map this time, you’ll see.”

“I like watching you try.”

Hans just waited. He had nothing to do and no one to talk to. 

He spent a couple of hours in his chamber, just turning the towel from the day before in his hands: rough, patched twice already, very different from the towels he was used to in Rattay. It still smelled like mint and chamomile—and the sweet water of the stream, and like the smoke from the fire. If he closed his eyes and focused enough, he could force himself to imagine it smelled just like Henry, even though it was missing the most important notes. 

This is so pathetic. 

Why did it suddenly feel so wrong? It wasn’t like he hadn’t done that before. It wasn’t like he hadn’t imagined, envisioned, dreamed of nearly every possible scenario, using everything he could as a trigger. 

When he sat in the warm, fragrant water at the bathhouse, he imagined Henry there with him: behind him, Hans’ back against Henry’s chest; Henry’s strong hands roaming his body, massaging his aching muscles, tender at first and then with more pressure, and then, brazenly, wrapped around his cock. Or when he’d wake up some mornings, hard: imagining Henry barging into his room to wake him up and, that something dark in his eyes again, turning him on his stomach; breaching him even before he was ready, pain and moans muffled by his feather pillow. 

And sometimes, woken up in the middle of the night by a nightmare rough like the rope of a hangman’s noose, he’d just imagine Henry holding him, body pressed lightly against body, kissing the side of his temple.

Hans didn’t know which was worse. It all felt rotten, at that moment, suddenly. 

Why did he act like such a bitch during breakfast? Henry didn’t even eat anything and he threw him out.

Dismissed, echoed in his mind in his own voice. You’ve never said that to him. Why today?

He knew why. He didn’t want to think about it—but he knew why. 

The day before: the coolness of water and the warmth of the flame, and the burning shame at his pathetic outburst. The smile that faded from Henry’s lips with each cruel word he spat out. The cowardice, the utter disgusting cowardice of not being able to force himself to look away. Sad, shameful lack of courage to kiss him when he stood so, so close. In the darkness by the stables, the plea, please come upstairs with me, don’t leave me, stuck in his throat.

And that morning: the knight’s dark, armoured figure next to Henry, unmoving and poised—yet clearly joking, talking, teasing. A better friend than Hans could ever be; a better teacher. And the constant questions from the widow sat next to him—unrightfully, on Henry’s place—veiled in thin appearances of courtly decency and yet so fucking indecent. Her interest so apparent she should be ashamed, even though nobles never are. Asking about Henry, incessantly: who he is and when did he become his escort, how good is he in a fight, what is his lineage, if any—while her eyes very clearly betrayed only two questions. Is he discreet? And: Would you permit it?

When Henry approached the table, with that look, with that smug smile, everything in Hans recoiled. Go back to your knight, spend yourself fighting—just so you don’t have the strength to fuck her tonight. 

Because I don’t want you to. I don’t want you to.

I will never forbid you but I don’t want you to. And I know you will, and I won’t hate you for it, but I will wish I did. 

My whole life I will wish I could hate you, and I never will. 

Henry ran his hand through his hair; wondered for a moment if he shouldn’t try and find a barber soon. Maybe once they finally go back to Rattay—unless Hans would laugh at him too much for wanting to return to how he wore his hair in Skalitz, back when it was his mother cutting it. 

Thinking about his parents hurt a bit less, lately. He wasn’t sure why, but he was glad for it.

Walking through the Trosky grounds, Henry tried to inconspicuously adjust the gartered hose he was wearing while, at the same time, trying to ignore the fact that he dressed unreasonably well. As if he had something to prove. Someone to impress. 

The sky was still light but dimmed with heavy clouds; it’d be dusk, soon, and it would probably rain as well. 

“Hans,” he said, walking up to the young lord waiting on the inner courtyard. “Ready to go?”

He just turned to look at him; looking from up close, Henry could notice dark circles under Hans’ eyes. He looked tired; defeated, somehow. 

“Mhm. Let’s go and get it over with.”

“I thought it’d cheer you up?”

“What?”

“Well, a feast… Good drink, good food, music? Maybe someone-”

“It’ll be mostly a lot of pointless small talk,” Capon cut him off, his tone unpleasant. “And I’m fed up with this waiting. I’d rather set out for Nebakov right now and wring the fuckers’ necks one by one.”

Henry tried his best not to look taken aback; made sure not to say anything that would piss Hans off even more. It seemed he was in a really bad mood, for some unknown reason. 

“And above all, I want to put that lying fucker posing for Nebak in irons.”

“That makes two of us,” Henry said as they walked, keeping his voice soft. “We’ll get him, don’t worry.”

“I hope so.”

Only a couple of paces separated them from the door leading to the feast hall; Henry could already hear the music and the chatter, and knew it’d be difficult to talk once they got in. 

“Hans..?”

“What?”

“You seem in a strange mood. What happened?”

There was something in Capon’s bright eyes that he couldn’t decipher. Like the skies over Trosky: clouded, suddenly. Grim. 

“Nothing happened, Henry. I’m just hungover from that stupid mead of yours.”

“I’ve seen you hungover and this isn’t-”

“Do you plan to talk back in front of Von Bergow, too?” Hans asked, suddenly, and his voice was so harsh it made Henry stop in his tracks for a second. “I warned you last night, I won’t put up with insolence.”

He’s embarrassed, Henry thought. 

After last night, he’s embarrassed he got emotional. Has to posture now, noble prick. 

At my expense, as always.

“Apologies, Sir Hans,” he simply said, and decided not to rile his lord up any further that evening. Give him space to heal his wounded, noble pride.

If it had to be Henry who got thrashed again to aid that process, that was alright—he was willing to pay that price, if it meant Capon got over whatever melancholy that was haunting him. 

“Lord Capon and his page,” Chamberlain’s sour voice sounded out through the hall. “At last!”

“Good evening, friends,” Sir Otto added, sitting behind a grand table filled with food and wine. “Join us, please, and sample what our kitchen has to offer. Wench! Pour Lord Capon some wine!”

Henry eyed the woman cautiously—she returned that gaze, her own caution veiled skilfully in the inconspicuous charm of a servant. 

“We have excellent Hungarian wine, Sir,” she said, and her voice was so sweet and servile Henry wondered if he sounded the same way each time he tried to be a prick and get away with it.

“Thank you, I won’t say no,” Hans said. When he reached out for the goblet, he didn’t even pretend to bring it to his mouth. “I’ll be glad to drink to our upcoming victory over the rabble from Nebakov. And perhaps… To an alliance against other such saboteurs throughout the Kingdom of Bohemia?”

“Well said,” Von Bergow replied, “Just what I like to hear.”

“It is… Certainly gratifying to hear a young lord expressing such concern for our country’s fate,” Ulrich chimed in. 

“True. It is admirable that you are determined not to betray your uncle Hanush’s trust. Our agreement stands, of course. But I would like to remind you all here…” Von Bergow’s tone was serious. “That politics is mainly about making the right compromises. Not hasty decisions.”

Hans was in a mood way too rotten to react the way he should—Henry stepped in, as cautiously and politely as he could.

“We have the same interests, Sir Otto,” he assured him. “We’ll be happy to help you deal with those criminals at Nebakov. And let’s hope our cooperation doesn’t end there. You know better than anyone how many similar bands plague our kingdom.”

“Well said,” Von Bergow nodded. “It seems Hanush and Radzig have an eye for capable and eloquent servants.”

Henry felt the woman’s eyes on him as she poured the wine; he could swear she smirked. Hans, standing next to him, looked at him as well—and averted his eyes quickly.

“But now, to the business at hand, my friends. We came to the conclusion that the best thing would be to catch them by surprise. Therefore, we will mobilise all the forces we have here and ride out on Sunday, at the crack of dawn.”

“The day after tomorrow?” Hans asked, eyebrows raised. 

“Yes,” Chamberlain replied. “And-”

“The Lord Chamberlain will lead the assault on the fortress,” Von Bergow said. 

“Wh- Sorry, Sir,” Hans cleared his throat. “We’ll be under… Ulrich’s command?”

Henry felt an uneasy wave of worry wash over him: Hans’ tone betrayed he was nearing a boiling point already. The last thing they needed now was to fall out of Von Bergow’s good graces.

“Who else? My captain is injured and I am expecting an important visit, unfortunately.”

“Aha…” Capon clearly fought with himself to remain calm. “And may I know what Lord Chamberlain’s plan is?”

Henry took half a step closer to Hans; their shoulders nearly touched. He wished he could take some of that tension away.

“Of course you may!” Ulrich smiled, self-satisfied. “It’s simple! We’ll pass through the Trosky gorge early in the morning and reach the fortress unobserved. A quick charge and they won’t know what hit them.”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Hans said, and Henry could swear he pressed his shoulder against his a little, “Isn’t that kind of frontal assault… Needlessly risky?”

It really fucking was.

“Risky?” Ulrich’s voice was underlined with disdain. “Peasants with pitchforks could handle that rabble! Have no fear, Lord Capon!”

“That wouldn’t be my plan,” Hans said, hushed. Henry could feel how he tensed up—under Von Bergow’s critical stare—and how suddenly small he became. For a moment, Henry’s mind filled with the sight of him the night before: fear in his eyes at his own shortcomings. 

“Sorry, Sir,” Henry said, even though he knew he shouldn’t. “I think my lord here has more experience of soldiering than your Chamberlain.”

Even with all the music and conversation around them, he could hear Hans inhale in surprise.

“He fought with valour during the conquest of Pribyslavitz,” Henry continued, “and the siege of Talmberg, and I-”

“I have no doubt Lord Capon is very experienced for someone his age,” Von Bergow cut him off. “But I’d rather entrust my forces to someone more mature. It’s thanks to Lord Chamberlain that this castle is standing. I have complete faith in his abilities.”

“My friend,” Ulrich turned to Capon, and Henry could feel his lord teeter dangerously at the breaking point. “Tomorrow, make sure to send your servant to the smithy for your equipment, and see…”

“Katherine, my lord.”

“Katherine, for wine for the journey. We’ll move before the sun rises on Sunday, before the bells toll for morning.”

Hans nodded; it nearly appeared that he was unfazed but Henry knew better than that—he could see his right hand, fidgeting. Without waiting for Henry, he turned around and walked across the hall. 

Give him space to heal his wounded, noble pride, Henry thought. 

The truth was that he didn’t want to spend that evening with Hans. Or rather: he wanted to spend every evening with him, and so he knew he shouldn’t. Lately, whenever they spent more time together things would end in a way that only made them both feel worse. And Henry didn’t mind feeling worse himself, but he couldn’t stand the thought of the same happening to his lord.

Luckily, a surprising number of people during that feast were curious about him—and some more than others.

When did this happen? Hans thought as his back hit the wall; he put away the wine, untouched, and simply looked across the hall, observing. 

When did this happen, from a clueless village boy who didn’t even know how to address Hanush or Radzig properly—to this? Dressed above his station, confident above his station, talking of things above his station—military plans and rare manuscripts and political machinations—with people above his fucking station. Suave, somehow, and clever, and yet so absolutely himself, still. So honest, even in those moments Hans knew Henry was lying through his teeth. 

Jealousy makes you so ugly, he scolded himself in his thoughts.

Then, you are twofold ugly. Two ways he makes you jealous, and both make you ugly. 

Once again, he couldn’t stop himself from looking. 

The widow was talking to Henry: wide eyes, her cheeks slightly red from wine and excitement, sweet smile; an illusion of distance, of appearances kept up, a promise of something unsaid somewhere beyond the point of social approval.

Hans wondered how she planned on doing it. She would not ask openly, not with all those people around—but she’d ask for something. Something innocent: to walk her to her room because she was frightened of the dark, or to bring her water because she suddenly felt faint, or to help her carry something she so very urgently fucking needed suddenly. It was always a game.

Back in Rattay, during one of the first banquets where Hanush allowed him to drink, and stay very late, that one Moravian noble girl—someone’s cousin or something—she asked Hans, sweet and innocent, to walk her to her chambers because she was scared to go alone. Saw a dog, she said. You wouldn’t let me go alone, frightened, she asked, long lashes and hair twirled between her slender fingers. You’re a good Christian, no, Sir? Of course, Hans said, and then fucked her against the stables so hard they woke up all the horses. 

But it was a nobles’ game. He didn’t want Henry pulled into it. 

Bullshit, his own voice mocked him, relentlessly. 

You’d just like to be the one to do it. 

Hans cleared his throat; he was glad no one could read his filthy thoughts. 

And it would be easier, too: you’re not a woman, you don’t have all those watchful eyes guarding your chastity or good name, and no one would suspect anything indecent if you had your squire walk you to your chambers.

They would go, across the Trosky grounds—away from the noise and away from the people. He would ask Henry to walk him to his chamber, maybe even without a reason; Henry would agree anyway. Or he’d come up with something, just to make it fun, just to make it thrilling: I need horseshoes for my horse, Henry, I think the front ones are fucked, can you take a look? 

And Henry would take it to heart, good boy that he was: he’d walk into the stables, torch in hand, ready to take a look—and only then Hans would speak up. Sod the horseshoes, you fool. He wouldn’t have to ask: it would be clear, so very clear, what he wanted. Against that wall, face pressed so hard into the wood he’d have to worry about splinters with each of Henry’s thrusts—Henry’s strong arm around his chest, pulling him close and holding him down. His hand across his mouth so he didn’t scream too loud; so he didn’t spook the horses. Because Henry would worry about spooking the horses, wouldn’t he?

Jesus fucking Christ, Hans thought, and nearly groaned out loud. It bleeds into your fantasies now, all this pathetic yearning. All this stupid care. Can’t even think of filth without-

“Ha! Dann ist es ja kein Wunder that puffed-up Capon won’t talk to us,” he heard, suddenly, ripping him away from his own thoughts. He looked across the hall: one of the nobles was talking to Henry, laughing. 

Go play these noble games, if you so want to, Hans thought, fuelling the disdain in his heart. Agree with him. Gossip, lie. See where that leads you. It’s all hollow.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” he heard Henry’s voice, suddenly so serious. “But Lord Capon did nothing wrong. It wasn’t his fault.”

Hans felt his heart beat a little faster. The disdain he stoked so diligently fell apart as if it was made of straw. 

“Watch your tongue!” The other noble laughed into his tankard. “You don’t want Henry to take offence and fly off the handle again!”

They laugh at him and yet he defends your honour.  

You make a monster out of him in your thoughts to make it easier but it only makes it more disgusting.

He’s a better man than you could ever be.

Hans exhaled, slowly. In the corner of his vision, he suddenly spotted the dark silhouette of the Prague knight, across the hall. The knight was very clearly looking at Henry; patiently waiting to be noticed and approached—simply confident that he would, eventually. Despite all his ugly jealousy and anger, most of what Hans felt towards him was respect. He respected his skill—and his patience, and his confidence, and the way he carried himself. He respected how he treated Henry. He respected how Henry looked at him. 

None of this is Henry’s fault, he thought. Don’t punish him. With this grovelling, this cruelty…

He hadn't had as much as one sip of wine yet he felt slightly dizzy; he wasn’t sure what it was, but it made his heart hurt, too. It was very bittersweet.

If you want to set him free—just set him free. 

Hans felt his eyes sting a little bit; it must have been the hangover, or the smoke from the fireplace. Or the clarity that overcame him, crushing and merciless.

Just let him go. 

Henry looked across the hall, slightly absent-mindedly, and started wondering about the things he wanted to take care of the next day; things he had to take care of the next day. He’d have to check whatever set of armour Von Bergow set aside for Hans—ensure its good state, fix if needed, probably polish it while he’s at it. Sharpen his sword. Visit the stables, check the horseshoes on his steed, check the tack. Get the wine-

“Sometimes I’m not sure who’s the lord and who’s the… Am I invisible or something?” He suddenly heard Hans’ voice. “Stop faffing about and get over here!”

Henry felt himself smile nearly instantaneously. 

“Is it safe to approach you?” He asked in a hushed tone, feigning caution as he tried to stop himself from grinning. “Is the worst of the storm over or..?”

“Very funny,” Hans rolled his eyes. “Come closer so I don’t have to yell over this idiotic flute.”

“But Sir… The storm…”

“Henry.”

“The lightning!”

“I will actually strike you in a second if you don’t stop,” Capon hissed, trying not to draw the attention of other guests. His brows were furrowed but it was painfully apparent he wasn’t actually mad. 

He’s so adorable, Henry thought, and then felt as if lightning really did strike him. Swallowing hard, he decided to ignore that thought as if it never, ever happened. 

Ignore it forever. 

“So, my lord, is this feast to thank for your mood… Turning around a little bit?”

“Abandoning the storm metaphor so quickly, Henry?” Hans crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes stubbornly. 

“A wise man knows when to stop.”

“And you are very wise?”

“I am, most importantly, humble,” Henry grinned. “So..?”

“I wouldn’t even call this sad spectacle a feast,” Capon shrugged. “Just a bunch of puffed up peacocks playing their stupid little games, instead of actually thinking about what’s coming.”

“They have the whole of tomorrow to think.”

“And that Chamberlain, he’s the worst of them all. Even if he was given a year, he couldn’t come up with a sound plan. That frontal assault? It’s idiotic, if you ask me.”

“He’s an idiot. Sod him. We’ll do well anyway.”

“And what experience does he have, exactly?” Hans was getting a bit too animated; Henry knew it was in their both interests to play along—but not too much.

“Definitely less than you,” he shrugged, “but what can we do? We promised.”

“Someone more mature, pffft. Ridiculous.”

“He’s very mature compared to you, though.”

“Old goat.”

“Old goat,” Henry nodded, smiling. He looked at Hans—the circles under his eyes still dark, some tiredness on his face, mixed with something he couldn’t really recognise—just as the other looked away. 

“By the way… And don’t let it get to your head. But thanks for standing up for me.”

“Of course. I trust you more than him. In battle and in planning, and in politics.”

“I’ll be…” Hans cleared his throat, “I’ll be going to bed. Try not to get too wasted, alright? It’ll be a busy day tomorrow, and not that much time to take care of things.”

“Don’t worry, Hans. I’ll take care of everything,” Henry had to stop himself from reaching out to at least pat his shoulder. He really wanted to touch him but it felt… Out of place. 

“I don’t doubt that,” the young lord replied, still looking somewhere to the side. “But still…”

Henry furrowed his brows slightly and turned his face in the direction Capon was looking. 

“Hm? What about her?” He asked, very directly. Hans raised his eyebrows.

“Nothing.”

“Well, you’re looking at her as if she personally offended you, Hans, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look at a woman like that. Even when some did actually personally offend you.”

Hans just shook his head. He took a deeper inhale and turned to Henry; he didn’t look into his eyes, just somewhere vaguely at him. 

“Widows can be… Stubborn. Persistent. Let’s say, well, insatiable.”

“Thank you for the warning, noble sir,” Henry laughed. Hans didn’t.

“I’m just saying… I don’t know. There might be better company here than her, that’s all,” Hans shrugged. 

Like you? Henry thought, and strange hope welled up in his heart for a brief second. 

“Like that knight of yours.”

Henry tilted his head curiously, and then turned around—unceremoniously. 

“Oh damn, I didn’t even see him,” he said, “thanks, Hans.”

“Mhm, you’re welcome,” Capon replied, pushing himself off the wall. “I want to sleep in tomorrow, no one should mind. No need to wake me.”

“Alright.”

“Goodnight, Henry.”

Passing him, Hans raised his hand ever so slightly—as if he wanted to touch Henry’s shoulder—but changed his mind. He just sent him a polite smile which, despite his best genuine effort, did not reach his eyes. 

Henry was so happy Hans was no longer mad at him that he did not notice it at all. 

He simply ran his hand through his hair, slightly adjusted the gartered hose digging into his broad thighs, and walked across the hall to talk to Sir Otto’s bodyguard.

“I wouldn’t mind more feasts like these, every now and then,” Henry said, slowly and inconspicuously approaching Black Bartosch standing by the wall. “Have you tasted the Hungarian wine?”

“I remain on duty, so I can’t…” the knight sighed, at the same time eyeing him from head to toe. “Sakra, I miss Prague! Is it good? The wine?”

“I would imagine it is… But I don’t know. We’re both martyrs tonight, you and I. My lord also told me not to drink.”

“Your lord, eh? How is-”

“Listen, Bartosch, the last thing I want to talk about now is my lord. Unless you’d like me to ask about yours, hm? What was he doing in Prague? Who did he meet with?”

“Henry,” the knight’s mouth curled up in a smile. “Do I look like a spy?”

“You look like a personal bodyguard, and those often know more than spies,” Henry countered. 

“Maybe. Plenty of gossip, for sure.”

“Let us gossip, then, or is that too lowly for you, noble knight?” Henry teased.

“Aye… Well, there are some details I could tell you,” he let out, feigning tiredness, “but so many other people seem interested in talking to you… I’d hate to occupy too much of your time…”

“Right…”

“Especially seeing how I already occupied your whole day,” the smile did not disappear from the knight’s handsome face. 

“Whole day, Bartosch? I’m not sure…You got tired pretty fast.”

“Ha! You’re stubborn and full of yourself, aren’t you?”

“I’m the most down to earth man in the whole of Bohemia,” Henry grinned. “But I demand a secret.”

“Hm?” Bartosch’s dark eyebrows shot up. 

“Tell me something interesting, and in return you can ask me one question as well.”

“You seem confident in the presumption there’s even a question I want to ask you,” the knight narrowed his eyes. There was a smile lurking somewhere, too. 

“There’s this saying about cats and curiosity,” Henry reciprocated the smile just a little bit too smugly. “So yes, I am confident you have a question you’re burning to ask.”

“Burning is a big word.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

Bartosch laughed—but there was something else besides laughter in his eyes.

“Alright… Let’s see… There’s this quite powerful and rich lord. Most likely a crucial pawn in the whole Wenceslas and Sigismund feud.”

“Right…”

“Botschek of Kunstadt. And he has a daughter… Young, pretty….”

“Unmarried?” Henry asked. 

“Aye.”

“Huh.”

“Huh indeed. She’s the talk of the town in Prague now, that Jitka of his,” Black Bartosch looked at him. “A bit out of our league, admittedly.”

“Well, mine for sure.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” the knight laughed. “You might not be able to marry a high noblewoman, but you could still bed her.”

“Aye, of course.” Henry laughed as well. “Still… I’m not sure if this is a secret that’s worth it, really. What use is it to me?”

“No? I thought you cared about your lord?”

Henry suddenly felt as if someone poured a bucket of ice cold water on him. 

“Huh?”

“He’s young, well-off, and unmarried? Heir to Rattay, no?”

“Ah.”

Henry wasn’t sure what the other wave was: but something washed over him, bitter like belladonna. Perhaps he would like just a moment without thinking about Hans. 

“Just someone to keep in the back of your head. Still, well,” the knight continued. “We’re not here to discuss the petty machinations of Bohemian nobles, are we?”

“We’re not,” Henry crossed his arms; he felt his biceps press against the fine fabric of his shirt and he wondered, for a second, whether he hadn't gained too much muscle since the moment he purchased it. He’d have to get the tailoring kit out the next day and check the seams.

For a very short moment, he could swear Black Bartosch looked at his arms as well. 

“So, let me claim my prize,” the knight smiled. “One question?”

“Aye.”

Black Bartosch gestured, discreetly, with his head, towards the table the nobles were sitting at.

“Lady Johanka, the widow.”

“What about her?”

“I’m curious… How did she go about it?”

“About what?” Henry smiled, sweet and pure.

“See, I would nearly believe you,” the knight smirked, “but I know each feint too well now. You have a tell, you know, when you lie. Even if you look so innocent doing it.”

“And what tell would that be?”

“Ha! As if I would tell you,” the knight laughed. “Now, how did she go about it?”

“She wants me to retell my story,” Henry said, scratching his neck a bit awkwardly; it felt silly to say. “To her, uhm, friend.”

“Her friend?” Bartosch rubbed his temple with his hand, laughing, “Who’s just… Not here?”

“Somewhere outside,” Henry shrugged.

“That’s not very subtle, is it? Not the height of the courtly game.”

“I wouldn’t know, really,” Henry shrugged again, “this would be only my second time with a noble lady.”

By how fast Bartosch’s dark eyebrows shot up, Henry knew he shouldn’t have said that. 

“You’ve really never been punished for insubordination against a noble, eh?”

“What can I say, I’m lucky like that,” Henry replied, feeling his throat tighten a bit. 

“Her friend who’s waiting outside…” the knight muttered to himself, chuckling. “Goodness. Do you plan on… retelling the story?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Henry shrugged. “And what about you? Did none of the ladies here catch your eye?”

“Come off it!” Bartosch waved his hand. “I’d have to stand in line behind Hermann and his ilk.” The corners of his eyes were still narrowed in laughter as he looked at Henry. “I’d rather have a drink with you.”

Looking at the knight, Henry suddenly realised something—and it caught him by surprise. Not the sheer fact—moreso, he was surprised how he didn’t realise it before. 

“Let’s leave the guests to themselves and go somewhere quieter, what do you say?” Henry asked, simply. 

“I like the way you think.” Black Bartosch said, masterfully hiding how pleasantly surprised he was himself. “I have some good brandy in my chambers. If you’re tired of the feast, I’ll invite you for a nightcap.”

“The night is young,” Henry took half a step closer towards him, so other guests would not hear. “We can start at the baths.”

“Hm,” the knight smiled. “Well…It’d be a sin not to use this opportunity. Let me leave first and go get this brandy. I’ll wait for you down by the baths.”

Henry watched him walk away; while his heart was beating much faster than usual, he was filled with calm so comfortable he had no words to describe it. 

Hans was in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He tried not to think—the more he tried, the worse it got. 

Once this is done, if the battle goes well, once we go back to Rattay with Von Bergow’s response… What then? 

He wanted to let Henry go: he wanted to stop pestering him, stop hanging above him like a dark, cursed cloud. He wanted to stop feeling so helpless and embarrassed, stripped of his confidence when it came to this one man. He wanted to give Henry his freedom back—without him as a ball and chain, always ordering him to stay by his side, greedy and selfish and with his head half the time filled with filth.

But he was—selfish. He knew it; he accepted it years ago. And he didn’t really want to let Henry go. He didn’t want to part ways: he didn’t want to think, even for a brief second in the darkness of his chambers, of Henry wearing someone else’s colours. Fighting by somebody else’s side. Laughing with someone else: that unbridled, loud laughter. He wanted to be Henry’s only friend. 

God, Hans thought, frustrated, squeezing his eyes shut. You’re so pathetic. 

He’d give everything for it to be just lust. That would be so simple: he would either find his release elsewhere, in the arms of some wench or some hired hand, imagining it’s Henry, or he’d just ask. 

If it was just lust, Hans convinced himself, he would simply ask. If he wasn’t burdened with all this strange jealousy, all this embarrassing need to be acknowledged, he’d just ask. He knew there was no chance Henry was interested in men: Hans had never really met a man who would be—maybe aside from that one minstrel and that nephew of Hanush’s brother’s second wife, unless that was just a rumour—and he watched Henry carefully, too. He had never seen him even look twice at any man when they were together. 

But if he asked, maybe Henry would just agree. He could frame it as a favour: just doing your friend a solid. It’s good to have a noble owe you a favour, Henry! It wouldn’t have to change anything between them; he could even pretend, after, that he was just curious and now he had clarity that he didn’t like it. And if Henry had qualms about actually fucking him, he could say it was a joke. Or lower the bar, a little bit—lower himself— I will use my mouth, Henry, and you can just imagine it’s a woman, it’s alright. It doesn’t have to mean anything. It’ll be funny, eh?

“Funny?!” Hans actually groaned out loud, covering his face with a pillow. It was so frustrating. It was making him stupid. 

If it was just lust, Hans thought, eyes still squeezed shut in frustration, it would be so much easier! So why in God’s name does it have to be lo-

Hans’ eyes opened widely, in shock; the pillow fell from his hand as the damning clarity of his situation dawned on him with full force. 

Oh, no.  

Henry walked through the dark Trosky grounds, torch in hand: he wondered whether he should avoid the patrolling guards. He never really considered what level of caution would be necessary—what would be the risk, exactly? 

“Your steps are so quiet,” Bartosch said, leaning against the door of the baths. “Like a thief in the night.”

“It is night,” Henry grinned. “And, well, as for the thief part… Do you want me to pick that lock?”

“Henry,” the knight raised one eyebrow. “Do not tell me you know that trade.”

“I know many trades.”

Black Bartosch laughed, shaking his head. He wasn’t being particularly quiet—but Henry noticed he scanned their surroundings from time to time to control whether they were being seen.

“Luckily, Magdalena is a dear friend. I have the key. No one will disturb us.”

“That’s clever.” Henry hummed as he walked into the baths. She kept the water hot for them, too, and the room was filled with the warm light of candles and the smell of soap and fragrant oils. She really must have been a dear friend—given she knew. “Good to have friends.”

“What can I say,” Bartosch said, taking a sip of the brandy and passing the bottle to Henry, “I have many friends.”

“That’s a Prague thing, I’ve heard,” Henry grinned, feeling the warmth of the drink spread through his tired muscles very quickly. 

“Another dig at Prague, hm?” the knight smiled; he started unbuckling his vambraces. “Once you go there, I promise you, you’ll enjoy it.”

“If,” Henry corrected him, passing the bottle back to him and then starting to undo all the buttons of his coat.

“No, not if,” with his gauntlets and laminars gone, Bartosch put his left hand in the water, testing its warmth. “I’m sure you’ll go there, and sooner than you think.”

“Ooh, ominous!”

“No, it’s not,” the man laughed, taking off his mailcollar and setting it aside. “It’s hopeful.”

“Hope and threat are dangerously close to being the same thing, I think.”

“Grim,” the knight smiled, curling his moustache slightly between his fingers. “Well. Curiosity is my greatest vice, it seems. I have to ask...”

“Hm?” Henry put his coat onto a wooden bench by the wall; he was ready to take off his shirt. 

“This ease… Have you laid with a man, before?” Black Bartosch’s dark eyes pierced him; he was still smiling. 

“I’ve been with a man,” Henry clarified, pulling his shirt over his head, “But there wasn’t much lying, no.”

“I see,” the knight smiled, leaning against the wooden tub, steam blooming behind him. “What was there, then?”

“Hm,” Henry threw his shirt on the floor and walked up to him; standing right in front, he lowered himself to reach around Bartosch and dip his hand into the steaming water. The water was pleasantly hot.

“Kneeling, mostly,” he finished, straightening his back to look right into his eyes, their faces a couple of inches away from each other. 

“I see,” the knight was still smiling, but his eyes were a little bit more serious. He started undoing the buckles of his breastplate. “Was there kissing?”

“No.”

“Well, then I must warn you,” the knight raised his hand, slowly, to brush against Henry’s jaw. “In Prague, kissing is paramount. Unless you’d like me to abandon the custom for tonight?”

“No, no,” Henry replied, looking into his eyes and pressing his face, ever so slightly, against his palm. “Let’s say your curiosity is contagious enough to spread to me, now, too.”

“Is it, now?”

“Yes,” Henry said, and his voice was so low Bartosch could feel it reverberate through his hand held so close to his mouth. “I want to experience you exactly the way you are. No need to change anything.”

Black Bartosch held his gaze. Steam was slowly setting on their skin.

“I want to learn,” Henry whispered, leaning forward; he could nearly touch the knight’s lips with his. “And so far, you’ve been a formidable teacher.”

He felt Bartosch smirk against him as the man pressed his lips to his, hungrily. His breath, slight hint of brandy on it, was even warmer than the hot air around them—his lips were soft but their ways weren’t. Bartosch kissed him slowly—but hard, his tongue parting Henry’s lips nearly right away, stubbornly and with confidence. It felt so natural that Henry gave in immediately; he gave in to Bartosch’s hands roaming his body, too, and felt it react to the touch rapidly and mercilessly. His beard and moustache were rough against his skin but somehow Henry enjoyed it: enjoyed how kissing Bartosch felt exactly like kissing a woman but also completely different. 

The knight broke the kiss for a second—Henry took a deep breath, feeling his body miss his touch immediately. In a short moment, they got rid of the rest of the armour and clothing, and Bartosch gestured at him to get into the tub first. Himself, he reached for the brandy.

As Henry lowered himself into the hot water, he understood why he was made to go first: the knight stood in front of him, naked as God made him, smirking. There it was, that knightly confidence—cockiness, even—and pride. Black Bartosch stood there, simply letting Henry look at him.

And Henry did look. 

He truly was formidable: his muscles were firm, and both his speed and finesse were reflected in how they were toned. Beneath the dense swirl of black hair—which made Henry’s blood rush wilder than he expected—he could see some older scars, but faint. It must have been years since Bartosch got gravely injured last; too good at what he did at that point to suffer many wounds. But there were a couple of bruises: marks of their last two days of relentless duelling. 

Henry felt himself filled with nearly unbearable confidence at the fact that the knight was allowing him to look; that he was about to allow him to touch, too. And that he was half-hard, already, from the kissing and undressing— for him. 

Henry leaned back in the tub, relaxing, and gestured at Bartosch to pass him the brandy; the level of hot water rose to nearly touch his chest as the knight got into the tub as well. He took a big swig before passing the bottle to Henry; letting their hands brush against each other as he did so, the same way their legs touched. 

“That is good brandy,” Henry said, and drank from the bottle again: holding the knight’s gaze as he did so. The moment he lowered the bottle, Bartosch reached out—but instead of the bottle, he grabbed Henry’s wrist and pulled him closer, into another deep and slow kiss. The wooden tub creaked dangerously under his arm as Henry leaned against its edge with his whole weight. 

“Now, I would suggest retaining our own custom, as it was so far,” Black Bartosch said, and his voice was low and pleasant.

“Hm?” Henry didn’t want to stop kissing him through the conversation, so he moved lower and kissed the knight’s jaw instead.

“Like with, ah-” Bartosch inhaled deeper as he felt Henry’s tongue on his neck. “Like with our first duel. You charge and, ah-, I yield into it. Show you how-”

“Mhm,” Henry hummed against his throat. It was hard to stop himself from kissing with more force—but he wanted to make sure he did not leave any marks, at least not above the mailcollar where they could still be seen. 

Bartosch raised his hand to Henry’s face and lifted it up to kiss him on the lips again; he bit Henry’s lower lip ever so slightly, more teasing than threatening to leave any trace. Then, he stood up, making Henry look up in slight surprise. 

As Bartosch walked across the room, clearly focused on getting something in particular, Henry could not stop himself from watching: his legs and his thighs, dark with hair, and then the same on his lower back, toned, leading down. The man looked through a drawer of the small table under one of the walls: Henry heard the clicking sound of glass flasks. He didn’t expect Bartosch to follow through with the whole bathhouse experience, even including the fragrant oils the girls there used-

Oh, Henry thought. 

The knight walked back; instead of getting back into the tub, he leaned against the wooden table under the wall across from it. Then, he opened the flask—the smell of lavender and rosemary filled the warmed up room—and poured some of the oil on his hand. 

“Leave some of the brandy for me,” he said, “this will take a moment.”

Henry reached for the bottle—and stood up. He got out of the tub, water dripping everywhere; there was a hint of surprise in the knight’s eyes, and Henry wasn’t sure why.

“It’s warmer in the water,” Bartosch laughed. “You’re free to go back and relax…. You need some patience. I’m not rea-”

“Well, first of all,” Henry said, walking slowly towards him, “looking at you like this gets me burning hotter than fire… So trust me, I won’t be cold.” He closed the distance between them. “Second, I’m bringing you brandy.”

Saying this, Henry brought the bottle up to Bartosch’s lips—knowing his hands were too slick with oil—and watched as the man took a sip, smirking.

“And third,” Henry continued after taking a swig himself, “I am a very patient man. I was just hoping I could help you.”

He put the bottle of brandy next to Bartosch, who, with a shadow of a self-satisfied smile on his face, sat back on the table a little further. Henry stood between his legs, close enough for their bodies to nearly press against each other, and leaned in for another kiss: slow and deep, again, and reminding him how difficult it was to be such a patient man in the end. 

Then, Henry moved to his neck, again—enjoying it more than he expected, especially the way it made Bartosch breathe out, low and ragged—and, without breaking that contact, he reached for the oil flask. He didn’t need to look at it to open it, after all, and cover his hand in the oil. 

“Hm,” Henry hummed, and took half a step back, turning around to scan the room. He noticed a barrel right to the left and pulled it closer. Right away, Bartosch understood the idea and raised his right leg, and put it on the barrel; as Henry returned to kissing his neck and shoulders, the knight moved Henry’s oiled up hand between his legs.  

“Slow and steady,” Black Bartosch said, trying to control his breathing: Henry’s lips on his throat and his collarbone were relentless and surprisingly skilled. “Start with one. Patience.”

And Henry did: reaching between them and downwards, he breached him, slowly, with one finger. It drew a moan out of the knight’s lips—first that evening—and Henry had to stop kissing him for a second.

“Something wrong?” Bartosch asked, hushed.

“No, no, sorry,” Henry replied, pressing his forehead into the crook of his neck. “I’m good at doing multiple things at once, usually,” he swallowed as he tried to return to his focus on opening him up. “But that was just very, very hot.”

His own honesty surprised him a bit—and it surprised Bartosch, too, as Henry heard him chuckle in-between deep breaths. 

Soon, Henry’s focus returned. The idea was simple enough and he understood both the tempo and the necessary level of pressure very quickly—still, he was glad for Bartosch’s guidance, muttered from time to time into his skin.

“Mhm,” the knight hummed, reaching for the oil flask. “Give me some more of that brandy.”

Holding the bottle with his one dry hand, Henry raised it to Bartosch’s lips again. Soon, the empty bottle was cast aside—so was the oil flask, as the knight poured out the rest of the oil on his hands. One hand, he brought between his arsecheeks again, just to make sure there was enough, the smell of lavender heavy on his skin—with the other, he reached for Henry’s cock, slicking it up. 

The grunt that escaped Henry’s lips bordered on animal more than man. 

“Patience pays off,” the knight said, low and quiet, right into Henry’s ear. Bit the earlobe slightly, drawing out another raspy moan. With his hand curled around the base of Henry’s cock, he pulled him closer. 

“I don’t-” Henry said suddenly, inhaling deeply. His eyes found the knight’s in the dimmed warm light of the room, inches away from his face. “I, uh…”

“Henry?” Bartosch asked, making sure his voice did not betray the sudden wave of doubt that welled up in him.

“I don’t think I’ll last very long,” Henry said, and the tips of his ears got red. “I think I’m actually really shit at being patient.”

Black Bartosch laughed under his breath, relieved. 

“I’ve fought you in the field for hours,” he whispered, slowly guiding Henry’s cock to press against him. “You’ve the stamina of three men.”

“Yes, but this-” Henry started and then realised the tip of his cock was pressed firmly against the knight’s entrance. “It’s very… Sakra!” It was half Bartosch’s hips moving towards him and half his own impatience kicking in, instinctively, that actually made him breach him with his cock. The sensation—sudden, tight, hot, deserved—made his breath hitch in his throat, somewhere deep, and his head spin. 

The knight eased into the rhythm that Henry started, bringing his hand to press against his strong back, steadying them both. Soon, Henry was buried in him up the hilt; he pressed his forehead harder into Bartosch’s neck—in his head, imagining the forge: imagining the steady rhythm needed to mould steel into shape. Without that, his movements would have turned frantic and he would have come in a blink of the goddamn eye. 

But he listened—like he would to steel. Which angle drew out a deeper breath, what force made the knight’s hand on his lower back press into his skin. 

Soon, it was Bartosch who pushed his hips down harder, the edge of the wooden table digging into his arse, leaving stark red marks. He let go of Henry’s back—leaning back on his outstretched arm, he needed the other hand to stroke himself. Henry, muffling his own moans against the knight’s skin, immediately picked up on that; leaned back a bit trying not to break the rhythm of thrusting deep and hard into him.

“Do you- Want me to?” He asked, voice strained.

“You don’t need to do everything, Henry,” the knight smiled. “Focus on your rhythm. Try to, ah- Fuck,” he exhaled, ragged and verging on a groan. 

Henry looked up, a hint of fear in his blue eyes. 

“No, no,” Bartosch rushed to calm him down. “I wanted to say that you should try to move more upwards but- Fuck, ah-” His head fell back and his hips bucked against Henry. “You did it before I could finish my sente-”

Henry pushed harder and faster—upwards, indeed—the force of it cutting Bartosch off. The knight moved, hooking his arm over Henry’s neck; instinctively, Henry shifted his weight and position to hold him up as he fucked him. The knight’s nails dug into his neck, painfully and incredibly. 

Henry clenched his jaw looking down at Bartosch stroking himself. His heart beat so wild in his chest he was afraid it would burst; if he kept looking at the knight’s straining cock, he would-

Bartosch’s hips bucked again, strong, and he moaned—and his hand stopped, curled around his length, as he came abruptly: ropes of cum shooting across his toned stomach, reaching the hair on his chest. His head fell back again as he panted; small tremors ran through the muscles of his legs. The lavender in the air turned salty and hot.

There was no longer any way Henry could stop himself—no thoughts of the forge and no amount of patience would help. He came, ramming into the knight’s arse stronger than he intended, reflexively. His thighs were burning and his neck stung, in the spots where Bartosch’s nails dug in as he came—but it felt so goddamn good. He felt himself spill, in long, heavy bursts, buried deep. 

“Fuck, I-” he wanted to say something as he pulled out, slowly, but he could not find the words. All that he wanted to say was thank you, but it did feel really stupid. 

“You either lied,” Bartosch laughed as he came to his senses, “or you have a natural talent.”

“Well,” Henry grinned, passing the knight a towel, “You told me you know when I’m lying.”

“Do you think the water’s still hot?”

“Only one way to find out.” Henry let his voice remain obscenely low. “If not, I can always go and-”

“You really don’t have to do everything,” the knight laughed again, throwing the dirty towel into the corner. He wanted to say something more but stopped himself; simply watched Henry get back into the tub, humming in pleasure as warm water washed against his aching muscles. 

The truth was that Black Bartosch stopped himself, last second, from what he wanted to say, just because he didn’t want to be accidentally cruel. 

You really don’t have to do everything, Henry — I’m not your lord. 

In the faint light of the moments just before dawn, Hans looked at his reflection in the small, blurry mirror he found in the chest of his chamber. His own eyes, morning-blue, looked back at him in a nearly blind haze.

It hurt in such a strange way—realising what he felt. He liked it and resented it at the same time. 

Mostly, he just wanted to sleep: but it seemed he’d be barred from that mercy entirely that night. He stared at the ceiling until the bells tolled for morning; the sound of rain outside the window only added to his melancholy.

Sleep refused to come. Feeling a splitting headache loom over his wretched head, Hans clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to fend off the wave of sadness.

You told him not to wake you, he scolded himself in his thoughts. You don’t get to be upset he didn’t come. 

He kept staring at his ceiling until the bells tolled again—for noon—waiting, throat tightened, to hear that fateful knock on the door.

But it just rained. No one came.

It had been over half an hour since the cook started talking: Henry was standing in the dimly-lit kitchen, waiting for the wine he had to get for Capon. Katherine was nowhere to be found and the cook did not mince words. She didn’t limit the number of those words, either—Henry feared he’d have to stand there listening to her ramble and complain for another hour.

“Stupid cow, who knows where she’s gone off to!” The cook waved her hands. “Well! Who cares! I’ll get you that wine, eh? What’s one more thing to do, even if I toil endlessly…” Still rambling, she went off into the pantry. Once she returned with the wine, Henry grabbed it as if his life depended on it and bolted out of the kitchen, only yelling back a faraway thank you from a safe distance. 

At the stables, he packed the wineskins into Hans’ saddlebags: the first one fit without an issue but the second one posed more of a challenge as there were some things there already, taking up space. 

Henry huffed, fighting to fit the wineskin in. He didn’t want to spook the horses; the best idea would be to take the other things out— God knows Hans never keeps anything useful there anyway— but given his mood lately, he didn’t want to risk getting in trouble over something so small and irrelevant. 

A sound of steps across the muddy yard reached him. Henry did not need to turn around to know who it was; he’d be able to tell the rhythm of those steps apart among a thousand men. 

“Morning,” the young lord’s voice betrayed his mood immediately. Rotten. 

“Morning, Hans,” Henry replied, still trying to fit the wine into the pack. “Slept well?”

“Like a babe.”

“Lying is a grave sin, you know?” Henry said, light-heartedly, and turned around to look at Hans. 

“Is it?” It was clear from the way Hans reciprocated the look that whatever would come next wasn’t going to be pleasant. “So, what happened to you?”

“Hm?”

“There’s cats at Trosky?” Hans asked, eyes narrowed, gesturing to Henry’s uncovered neck. The scratches at the back of it stood out as Henry’s skin was slightly sunburnt from their ride two days before. 

“Perhaps,” Henry shrugged, smiling. “I’d imagine a big castle like this needs at least one mouser.”

And a skilled one, from Prague, Henry thought to himself and tried not to grin.

“You got the wine?” Hans asked, avoiding his gaze.

“Yes, but I’m having trouble fitting it into your saddlebags.”

“Then pack it into yours?” the young lord shook his head slowly. “Not one of your good days today, is it?”

Henry did not reply—simply passed Capon and packed the other wineskin into his own saddlebags. He knew the wine took up the space he would need for his own things, especially any decoctions and bandages; he knew he had to plan what gets left out now. 

“It doesn’t bode well for your future if you need someone to solve such a complex issue for you,” Hans said, his voice purposefully unpleasant. 

Henry turned around and closed the distance between them slowly: stood right in front of Hans who, suddenly, stopped looking angry and started looking worried. 

“I’m going to the smithy for your armour and your sword,” he said, low, “because, as I would like to remind you, we’re riding out to battle at the break of dawn.”

“I know that,” Hans spat out, crossing his arms nervously. 

“Do you? Because it seems like you forgot,” Henry took a half-step closer, “what if I die tomorrow and the last thing you said to me was calling me an idiot again, undeservedly?”

“You-” The anger on Hans’ face dissipated even though it was clear he tried to hold onto it. “Don’t say that.”

“Don’t be cruel.”

“I-” Hans inhaled, his bright eyes tired, widened in sudden sadness. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright,” Henry put his arm on his shoulder, briefly, as he passed him. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

It started raining again. Hans wandered the Trosky grounds aimlessly: the lack of sleep was slowly getting to him. His muscles hurt and the headache was nearly unbearable—however, the worst of it was his mind. His thoughts were relentless, his perception of time warped, and to only make matters worse, he couldn’t remember whether he apologised to Henry out loud or just in his head. 

Without realising where he was going, Capon walked towards the outer fortifications. The rain was slowly soaking into his coat and his hair; each gust of wind hit hard against his sides, making him tremble. He wouldn’t have broken out of that stupor if it wasn’t for the voices he heard: no clashing of steel, no heavy breathing, just voices. A conversation over the dice table where they sat, shielded from rain. 

“Were I a lesser man, I’d have accused you of cheating,” Black Bartosch said, a smug note in his tone. 

“Were I a lesser man, I’d have cheated,” Henry shrugged, laughing. “Now, pay up.”

“Just don’t go looking for that treasure today, or we’ll have to ride out without you tomorrow.”

“You assume I will get lost?”

“Well…”

“I think it’s less worry and more hope, eh?”

“Hope, Henry? What for?” The knight’s tone was dripping with contrary confidence. 

“That we will go together to look, and you’ll get half of it.”

“Half the treasure… Maybe that’d be enough to tempt me to ride out, shovel in hand.”

“Well, you did promise to teach me more. Maybe a lesson would be more tempting than the treasure.”

“A lesson you say?”

“Aye,” Henry held the knight’s gaze firmly and Hans wasn’t sure why it all felt so tense. “Yielding, right? How to guide your opponent’s blade… I’d say it’s your turn to charge now, and mine to learn to yield into it.”

“Mhm,” the knight smiled, for some unknown reason, and there was something in his dark eyes that Hans really could not decipher. “I like the way you think, Henry.”

“Well, then- Oh, Hans!” Henry exclaimed suddenly, noticing him. “Sir Hans,” he corrected himself very quickly, “come join us, get out of the rain?”

“No, I’m- I’m alright,” Capon replied, nodding at the knight in polite greeting. “The rain isn’t that bad, it’s actually pretty refreshing.”

He was grateful the rain was so cold—he could feel his face burn with embarrassment. He was starting to shake and he really hoped it wasn’t visible. 

“If so, then maybe I could use it, too,” Henry said, getting up from the table. If Black Bartosch was surprised or offended, he did not let it show. “Thank you for the map, friend. I’ll see you at supper?”

“Aye,” the knight replied, and turned to Hans, “Sir Capon.”

Hans nodded, strangely unsure how to say a proper farewell out of a sudden: everything was getting hazy and the wind was stronger than he expected. 

The warmth of Henry standing right next to him, close enough for their shoulders to touch, pulled him out of that haze for a moment. 

“Let’s go inside, eh?” Henry asked, quiet enough for only Hans to hear as they walked through the grounds. “This rain is absolutely nasty.”

“It really fucking is,” he replied, strained. “ Refreshing? I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying today, honestly.”

“Did you even sleep at all?” Henry’s question hung in the air for a moment as he held the door open for Hans, hurrying him into the warm corridor of the tower. 

“No, not really,” Capon sighed. “And now I’m wet.”

“That you are. You need to get changed or you’ll get sick.”

“I know that much,” he huffed. “I’m not stupid.”

“I’m not calling you stupid, my lord,” Henry smiled lightly, guiding them in the direction of Hans’ chamber. “I’m just worried.”

Hans did not reply; his face was cold enough for the blush not to be too visible. 

Soon, they reached the door of his chamber; Henry looked up at him, the smile still lingering in the corners of his eyes. 

“You should try to get some rest, Hans. We need to be ready for anything tomorrow.”

“I know. I’ll try.”

“I’ll bring you something warm to drink, what do you say?”

“No, it’s… It’s alright.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Hans inhaled deeper and clenched his fists to stop himself from fidgeting. “I’m sure you have a lot to do, still, to prepare for tomorrow.”

“A couple of things, yes, but I’ll get it all done on time.”

“Can you just… Can you come in?” Hans couldn’t believe he actually said it. “Talking will cheer me up and once this idiotic melancholy is gone, I’m sure I’ll actually sleep at night.”

Henry stood there: surprise visible on his face in the brief moment before he reined it in. 

You’re insane, Hans thought. He’ll-

“Happily,” Henry grinned, and opened the door for him. 

As they stepped into the warm chamber, Hans felt dizzy—he wasn’t sure whether it was the lack of sleep, the cold, or something different. He started slowly undoing the buttons of his coat, his fingers trembling slightly, as Henry sat on the bench by the wall. 

“Did you eat?”

“Mhm, a bit,” Hans replied, pulling the damp, cold shirt over his head and throwing it into the corner. “You?”

“Too much,” Henry laughed as he patted his stomach. “At this rate of eating and training, I’ll have to play the tailor and widen half of my damn clothes.”

“Once we’re back in Rattay, I’ll take you to the tailor,” Hans said, putting on a dry shirt, wrinkly but clean. “I want to see the surprise on his face as he takes your new measurements.”

“Then I hope you’ll pay for it, too, because knowing me I’ll be broke again.”

“Of course I’ll pay,” Capon ran his fingers through his hair, still wet. “And you wouldn’t be broke all the time if you actually let me pay more often. And if you stuck to one set of armour for longer than a week.”

“Come on, I don’t buy new armour every week.”

“No?”

“Well, maybe.”

“See? You stuck with one horse for so long but armour? Nooo.”

“You might be right,” Henry smiled again. He watched as Hans kicked off his muddy shoes and sat down on the bed, back turned to him. “Once we go back to Rattay, I need to get that pourpoint of yours you made me wear for the audience with Sir Hanush. I can’t wait to see how it’d fit me now.”

Hans turned around to look at him.

“You still have it?”

“What was I supposed to do, give it to some beggar? That’d be something! Can’t imagine your uncle wouldn’t have my hide for it.”

“Luckily, you’re friends with the executioner, so I’m sure he’d go easy on you,” Hans chuckled as he turned again. “I’m not breaking my back to talk to you, Henry. Come here.”

Henry groaned, standing up. 

“Hope this isn’t a trick.”

“Trick?”

“Aye, the second I touch your bed you actually yell at me to keep my peasant hands off it or something,” Henry laughed as he sat down next to Hans. 

“Am I this simple and cruel, you think?” the young lord asked, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Sometimes you are, aye,” Henry bumped his shoulder against his. “But I’m joking. Are you warmer?”

“A bit, yes.”

“Good, good.”

Suddenly—baffling Henry to a great degree—Capon’s ears turned red; so did his cheeks. 

Don’t think about that, don’t think about that, Hans scolded himself frantically. All he wanted in that moment was to feel Henry’s arms wrap around him. 

“When we’re back in Rattay,” he cleared his throat, “after you get time enough to catch up with that sweetheart of yours, we should ride to Sasau.”

“Why Sasau?”

“I want to see the monastery.”

“It’s not finished yet, I don’t think,” Henry replied. “But I’d be happy to go. We’d just have to steer clear of the monks...”

“They don’t leave the monastery much, though, do they?”

“They’re not supposed to,” Henry laughed. “But, as you can imagine…”

“Ha, aye.”

“So, as soon as we return, we can ride out. The weather should still be nice... If the leaves start turning orange it will be even more beautiful than when I was there.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Sasau? Or the monastery?”

Hans shrugged; their shoulders still touched.

“Both?”

“Aye, sometimes. It was… Peaceful.”

“You went there to kill a man, no?”

“Well,” Henry chuckled. “That is how it started, aye. But it became much more than just that.”

“Did you meet anyone interesting there? Other than the guy you were supposed to, you know-” Hans yawned. “I guess monks aren’t very interesting, are they?”

“Oh, there were plenty of interesting characters there, trust me. Among the novices and the older monks, too. Most importantly, though, I learned a lot.”

“What, prayers?”

“Among other things. But I studied alchemy a lot, and copied manuscripts, too.”

“You’ve barely learned to read and you’ve got to copy manuscripts?”

“I’m a fast learner, Hans.”

“That you are.” Hans yawned again. “Was it all in Latin?”

“Aye.”

“Did they have… You know… Forbidden books there?”

“They did,” Henry laughed. “There was this one case, always locked… As you can imagine, I got into it pretty quick. Didn’t have the time to read through much of what they had but sneaked a look at plenty. There was one book in particular that made me think of you, actually-”

Henry turned his head slightly—Hans dozed off, head resting on his shoulder.

“So when we’re in Sasau, we should try breaking into the monastery, actually,” he continued, simply saying anything as a way of keeping himself talking; he didn’t want to make things awkward. He was also worried his heart was beating loud enough to wake Hans up. “I will show you the book, and maybe we’ll even get to see something I copied.”

“Mhm,” the young lord muttered, opening his eyes slightly. 

“Just lie down,” Henry said, and Hans complied immediately, sleep overcoming him too strongly to worry about anything. “There’s this garden, right in the middle. It was full of flowers in the summer, blooming herbs… I wonder what they have growing there in fall…”

Henry kept on talking, voice soft and hushed, until he made sure Hans was fully asleep.

Before he got up to quietly leave, he looked at him: hair tousled, cheeks slightly red from the cold wind, and his fair eyelashes that appeared even longer with his eyes closed.

All Henry wanted to do was to kiss him.

As he left, silent, all he could think about was that one day—one fateful day—he would get courage enough to do it. 

Hans woke up when it was still fully dark—everyone else was asleep. He got dressed, quietly, and opened the door to leave, hoping to sneak into the kitchen and get some food. He nearly stepped in it: right by the threshold, a wooden tray with the meal from supper, bread and meat and stew, lukewarm. Next to it, the armour Von Bergow set aside for him: clearly fixed and polished. 

He felt a wave of warmth overcome him: a mix of gratitude and embarrassment, and something soft and sweet woven there that he didn’t want to name, even though he knew what it was. 

He went back into the room and ate; once he finished, he opened the door again to catch a passing servant. 

“How long until dawn?”

“Two hours, sir, a bit more than that maybe. Would you like us to prepare you to ride out? Lord Otto and his retinue will wake soon, too, and we’ll have to attend to them first.”

“Well, I won’t go back to sleep, so yes, that might be a good idea.”

Another servant joined them; the usual process took place, one Hans was very used to at that point. They helped him dress—and then put on all the chainmail and plate; they took away the tray and the bowl, and his chamberpot, too. They asked some questions—whether he needed something—and then left, quietly. 

Hans couldn’t stop thinking about it, again: how each time Henry put on all that armour, he had to do it alone. Black Bartosch had servants help him do it, certainly, being a noble-born knight, and so did most of the men at Trosky. 

As quietly as he could, he made his way down—and outside, towards the smithy. Everyone was still asleep; only a handful of guards were patrolling the fortifications and a couple of stableboys were up preparing the lords’ horses. It was cold: the rain and wind from the day before still lurking somewhere, sneaking under his armour, biting at his ribs. 

Hans couldn’t stop thinking about the past weeks. From the stocks, the wedding, the near-execution. All those small moments, riding out and bathing… All that coldness—all that petty, purposeful cruelty—countered, relentlessly, by Henry’s warmth. Stubbornly. Time and time again.

At first, Hans thought it was loyalty to Radzig that made Henry put up with him; underlined, in crimson, by the drive for revenge. Then, he started thinking it must have been self-preservation, and the desire to rise through ranks through his service. Sometimes he thought it was a weakness, too: that Henry simply didn’t have balls enough to tell him to fuck off—and fuck off himself. 

It felt so stupid, looking back. Why did he have to make these things up in his mind—warp Henry into someone else, someone worse, just so he didn’t have to face the truth?

The very simple, damning truth: that Henry cared about him. 

Maybe not in the way Hans wished he would, in those quiet, dark hours of a sleepless night—but he cared. About him. 

Out of all people: him. 

He knocked on Henry’s door, quietly. The air was heavy with the smell of rain and wet iron from the smithy. He listened—then knocked again. Soon, through the thin wooden walls of the shed, he heard Henry get up from his bed, quite frantically. 

He opened the door: shirtless, in just his braies, eyebrows furrowed in worry. 

“Shit, Hans,” his voice was raspy from sleep, “did I oversleep?”

“No, no, it’s still early,” he replied, hushed. “But Von Bergow will wake soon and people will start getting ready.”

“You’re already… Ready.” Henry said, eyeing him from head to toe. “Shit, sorry, I’ll hurry. I have your sword.”

“It’s alright, I’m just here-”

“Your bags are packed, and you need to remember one of the wineskins is in my saddlebags. Give me a moment and I’ll dress, I’ll just-”

“Let me in or we’ll wake everyone up,” Hans chuckled. His heart fluttered in his chest wildly—but he made up his mind. 

“Uh, yeah, come in,” Henry opened the door wider, rubbing his face. “Holy shit, I slept like a stone… Is your armour alright? I did my best.”

“Yes,” Hans laughed lightly as the door closed behind him. “This is actually sort of why I’m here.”

“Oh?” Henry looked up at him from his bed, where he sat down to put on his hose. 

“Well, not my armour, uh,” Hans cleared his throat, throwing his bascinet at Henry’s bed next to him. “Your armour.”

“What about it? I’ll hurry-”

“No, I just…” Hans inhaled, trying to steady his breathing and his hands. “Can I help you put it on?”

“No, of course not, I’ll do it, it’s alright,” Henry waved his hand. “I’ll manage, Hans. I always do it alone.”

“I’m not asking if you need my help, Henry.”

Henry looked at him, slightly confused, standing up. 

“I don’t think I understand-”

“I’m asking you to let me help you. I want to…” Hans was afraid his heart would jump out of his chest like a frightened bird. “I want to do this for you, at least this once.”

Henry just stood there, looking at him—confusion still clear in his eyes. His chest rose with heavier breathing, for a moment; he blinked a couple of times. 

“Unless-” Hans felt himself waver and panic. 

“Are you sure?” Henry just asked. There was something in his voice that Hans couldn’t decipher.

“Yes.”

“Alright.”

It would be dawn, soon: it would break over Trosky in a cascade of pinks and oranges, soft against the rainy skies, and shine down on all the armoured men and their horses. But not yet—not yet.

With everyone else still asleep, in the still quiet of the darkest hour, Sir Hans Capon of Pirkstein brushed his fingers, feather-light, against Henry’s collarbones as he smoothed out the collar of his shirt. Nothing was said. He opened the chest in the corner; Henry stood still, watching him retrieve the rest of the armour; digging through layers of books and herbs. He laid it out on his bed; it smelled like marigolds and mint, and steel. 

He grabbed the greaves and stood in front of Henry. He smiled—softly.

“Hans-” Henry wanted to oppose, for a second, some fear kicking in. But Hans just shook his head, his fair hair falling into his eyes.

“No, let me,” his voice was warm and he smiled, still, even though his hands started trembling slightly. 

Greaves in hand, Hans kneeled—slowly, slightly awkwardly—before Henry. Then, leaning, he started fastening the buckles around Henry’s shins; he let his hands linger, for a brief moment. The silence that surrounded them, tender and comfortable, was interrupted only by the clicking sound of steel and the faraway song of birds waking up. It felt profound, in some bittersweet and heartbreaking way. 

Hans wanted to look up—but he was sure it would make his heart beat so fast it’d stop. He knew it would make him weep: looking up at Henry, silent and still, so beautiful in that darkness, and at least for that short, fleeting moment… His. 

He stood up, reaching for the pourpoint; avoided Henry’s gaze. As he put the pourpoint over his shoulders, and fastened it, and then the hauberk and the cuirass—he did not dare to look into Henry's eyes. He allowed himself to look at his body as he dressed him, and allowed his hands to linger against his skin whenever he could; the warmth radiating off him was intoxicating. Still: he did not look into his eyes.

If he did, he would find Henry’s bright eyes slightly wide in disbelief—and welling up with tears. 

As he fastened the final buckles on his gauntlets, he laughed quietly under his breath. Some unknown joy filled Hans’ chest—some foreign, formidable calm. 

As Henry of Skalitz looked at his lord, in that quiet dark, he understood. He understood that this ill-fated star of his—the one he was born under, dooming and cruel—wasn’t unlucky; not at all. 

Looking at Hans, he understood: as he was born right at the point of time that allowed him to meet him—to fight for him, to laugh with him, to ride out with him—he must have been born under the luckiest star of them all. 

He must have been born under the most fortunate star of the whole firmament: to be allowed to look at this man, glowing and holy—and love him, until death.