Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bitter tears pour down my face

with an anguished storm of sighing,

when my eyes chance to turn on you

through whom alone I am lost from the world.

Yet it is true that your soft gentle smile

quietens my ardent desires,

and saves me from the fire of suffering,

while I am intent and fixed on gazing.

But then my spirits are chilled, when I see,

at your departure, my fatal stars

turn their sweet aspect from me.

Released at last by those loving keys,

the spirit leaves the heart to follow you,

and in deep thought, walks on from there.

Sonnet 17: Piovonmi amare lagrime del viso . “Il Canzoniere,” Petrarch. 

A wave of cracking pain tore through Hans’s head. Everything smelled like blood and gunpowder and morning dew on the dandelions. He inhaled, sharply—time slowed down. All he could see was Henry: as Hans fell back, Henry immediately turned, frantic, brows furrowed; leaned over him. The worry painted on his face, streaked with blood, gave way to rage so quickly it scared even Hans—as Henry turned around, aware they were getting approached. 

In that split second as Hans fell back, blood pouring over his eyes and the force of the impact of the bandit's mace making him dizzy, a thousand images flooded his mind. 

It seemed so strange to think that mere months before—the winter, last, heavy with snow and solitude—he didn’t even know him. It seemed so strange to recall the life Hans led, boisterously and ridiculously, before Henry. Before Henry appeared… Before Henry happened to him. Was it even real, that life? Was it even his? It seemed so unreal, now. 

As he felt his back hit against the ground, his bascinet dropping into the mud behind him, it was as if time itself stopped: and he was stuck, suddenly, in a swirling thread of memories. Henry called out to him—or he hoped he did—as he drove his sword through the bandit's belly, but the real world became a blur against the strangely visceral memories that overtook Hans completely. 

The first time he saw him in Rattay: foolish and reckless peasant boy whose only achievements were losing Radzig’s sword and fleeing from the Cuman raid, and who with some utterly ridiculous stroke of luck suddenly got accepted into the lord's service. The alehouse: the insolence, stupidity, and shocking courage of it. The hunt—the rescue—the baths. The siege. 

“Hans! Hans!” Henry’s voice was rough with exertion. “Look at me!”

He wanted to say something but he couldn’t. Couldn’t catch breath enough to talk, and he couldn’t… Couldn’t focus enough on the world around him.

His head swirled with memories. The excitement thrumming deep within Hans each time he spotted Henry, and the strange hollowness each time Henry left, always busy and always needed and always tasked with something… And yet always returning, the sound of hooves against the wood on the Rattay bridge—sometimes so well-groomed, clean, fresh from the baths as if ensuring he looked his best when he returned, and sometimes battered and bleeding and bruised. Both of these sights threatening to make Hans slightly light-headed, even if in slightly different ways; both so incredibly Henry. 

The way Henry would smile each time he noticed him: greet him politely, get down from the saddle, look at him with those eyes that were infuriatingly innocent and mischievous at the same time. Obedient—and yet full of cocky challenge. 

Hans opened his eyes—it was no easy task, the blood that got into them stinging fiercely—and looked at Henry's back. The bandits were approaching, slowly and deliberately, and knowing they had the upper hand: three of them against one Henry. Hans couldn't get up, his vision shaky and blurry and his head swaying on his shoulders, and all he could do was watch. Two others joined, wielding crossbows. Five against one.

Five against Henry. 

Henry, in front of him, sword raised. The air was wavy, like above the flame.

And again, memories flooded his spinning head… That Rattay brink of summer, after their hunt, Hans dreamt of little else but to be called to some great task—some great adventure—to prove himself and, most importantly, be able to take Henry with him. He wanted to fight by his side: observe him and learn from him, and teach him all that he himself knew, and talk to him for hours about horses and poetry and women, stupid things and clever things and then just anything else to keep talking, too. To ride out with him, to race him, to duel with him, to sit around a campfire with him and sleep at his side until dawn would call them to hunt again.

Each day that he sat alone at Pirkstein, in-between Henry's visits, he kept thinking about it—imagining new scenarios, new fantastical opportunities where he gets to rescue Henry or teach him a lesson and bring him down a notch or make him laugh as they break bread or share a bottle of wine or a bathhouse wench; and then, before he fully understood it, he started dreaming of different things, too, and the way Henry's neck turned red when he was flustered.

Each time Henry left and he was alone with his thoughts, he would fantasise for hours: in his bed, at the table during supper, in church during mass, thousands of scenarios: what if they went to Prague, one grand day, and the inn was full but they had to stay somewhere to sleep… What if they went camping somewhere by Sasau and a band of brigands attacked them, and Hans would kill them all because they dared raise their weapons at his squire? What if they went to the baths, again, but this time Henry got drunk and, blissfully unaware of how many lines he's crossing, he'd reach for him in that soapy water, press his rough palm against Hans’ thigh, and then up, and up..?

Countless what ifs, countless hours spent thinking about Henry—but about himself, too, in a way he hadn’t thought for ages. Suddenly his thoughts were no longer lonesome and self-deprecating and full of boredom: they were grand and thrilling and fascinating, and, well… Happy. 

And so the second the idea to send a message to Von Bergow appeared, in that dark room as they planned with Jobst and Liechtenstein, he volunteered them both immediately. 

And this… This was where he got them; in peril, once more. Perhaps he shouldn’t have done that. Perhaps he should have gone alone—let Henry stay in Rattay, with that mill sweetheart of his, with his herbs and books and treasure hunts and rescuing kittens from fires and orphans from trees.

But if he did—let Henry stay in Rattay—he himself would be dead, already, most likely. Worse, he’d be bored, for sure, and alone. And! Henry would probably never forgive him for it. Or himself. Because that’s the type of person Henry was, deep down. Henry… Just as reckless and restless as Hans. Just as brave and ridiculous. 

His Henry-

“That’ll do!” A voice echoed through the valley. By how quickly the bandits turned around, and how quickly they complied, it was clear the man approaching them was their leader. Hans recognised his voice, too; he talked to him, after all. Raised a toast of surprisingly good wine. 

The leader’s steps were heavy—but slow. Confident. He knew he won. 

Henry used that moment of sudden distraction to quickly crouch by his side; looked into his eyes with the same intensity as in that pen on the Rattay green after their duel, then switched his attention to the wound on Hans’ temple. It all lasted a heartbeat or two; there was no more time, as the leader of the bandits walked up. 

“We’ll surely get a nice fat ransom for Lord Capon of Pirkstein,” he said, three paces away from them. 

Hans couldn’t fully see Henry’s face—he wasn’t touching him either—but he could tell immediately that something shifted. He could feel Henry tense up even through the distance that separated them; he could swear he felt Henry’s heartbeat tear up his own chest. Like at the wedding, when that one blow landed right against Capon’s cheekbone, small splatter of blood landing on both their coats. Like that moment in the cell where the guards hauled Henry away right after telling Hans he’d hang. That something… Changing Henry from man to-

It had shifted before. Henry’s protectiveness had always been there—God almighty knew Hans did not understand it one bit for those first couple of weeks; thought it was strange and stupid and baffling—but sometimes it would turn into something different. Mightier. Uglier. Absolute.

Sharp teeth, bared in a threat. 

Henry stood up, grabbing his sword. Straightened his back. The summer wind stopped for a moment; Capon held his breath, too, struggling to lift himself on his elbows to see. Spots and swirls danced at the edges of his vision.

Henry made a step—two, three—towards the line of bandits. Slow, deliberate; the mud beneath his shoes squelched. Silence fell. 

“You’ll have to take him first,” he said, longsword raised, as he positioned himself right in front of Hans, blocking the path with his body. Hans’ heart pounded in his chest like a bell. 

A guard dog set loose. 

“My boy…” The leader said, slowly shaking his head and raising the visor of his bascinet. “Courage is a thing of honour…But what you’re proposing isn’t courage, it’s foolhardiness.”

If Hans had strength enough to laugh under his breath, he would. 

Clearly you don’t know Hal, he thought to himself. 

As the bandits surrounded them, the relentless stream of dark thoughts returned, for a brief moment: Did Hans doom them both? Did he doom Henry? Would they die—like he feared before, during the ambush, in the herb woman's hut, the cell, the gallows—or would fates smile upon them, again, once more?

Perhaps he should have been remorseful. Perhaps he should have been ashamed. Scared. Guilty.

Yet, as he looked at Henry's back, longsword raised, all that he could feel was pride. 

It spread within his chest hot like fire in the fields during spring: straw stubble devoured by flames to clear the ground for new seeds. That pride—just as cleansing as it was dangerous.

“Better to have honour than to sneak up and ambush people from hiding,” Henry said, shifting his weight. He moved his left foot—corrected it—just as Capon taught him, readying himself into a strong guard position. 

“It works though!” The leader took off his bascinet; wiped his forehead with the back of his gloved hand. “War is a nasty business.”

Henry was severely and hopelessly outnumbered, yes; still, the man taking his helmet off seemed like a level of confidence meant to offend them both, the lord and his escort alike. 

“And it is better to have your head on your neck and your foe on his knees,” the man moved closer, another pace towards them, “than the other way around.”

Having said that, he turned his back to them, ready to address his men. Even with the upper hand, it seemed like a reckless thing to do; surely meant to offend. 

If there’s a difference between courage and foolhardiness, Hans thought, supporting himself on an outstretched, aching arm, there’s also a line between confidence and stupidity. 

“Why does a coward turn to banditry? You should have been a knacker!” Henry yelled.

Under any other circumstance, Hans would think it foolish—but not now. Now he recognised it for what it was: a clever tactic. Henry wanted to rile him up. Distract him. Lure him into engaging him: with his bascinet off, in the mud, his senses dulled by the outpouring of confidence. 

“You’d still have your head on your neck,” Henry gestured with his sword, masterfully using that seemingly casual gesture to hide the fact he raised the weapon into a guard, “and your own seat in the tavern!”

“Shut your stupid mouth!” One of the men yelled out. “You’ve no idea who you’re talking to!”

It was true: they did not seem like common thugs. Common thugs could not have planned and carried out the carnage that happened that morning in the gorge. 

“To a weasel who shoots from the bushes instead of a fair fight!” Henry countered. His right foot shifted; secure. 

Hans wondered, for a moment, how it was possible that Henry always knew exactly what to say to piss someone off. Find their weak spots—provoke them, and so successfully. For a split second, Hans wondered whether Henry had done it to him, too, at some point. 

“You think so, eh?” The leader’s voice lowered. 

“Why dirty your hands with him, Captain?” the man’s second in command asked. “One shot and-”

“I’m actually starting to think this young knight deserves a fair, chivalrous duel,” the leader said, pushing his bascinet into the man’s hands—and taking his sword. 

‘Young knight’ and ‘chivalrous duel’, Hans thought, his head still spinning, we’ll either die here today or Henry will never let me hear the end of it, cocky bastard. 

“If he’s good enough, I’ll let him live!” The leader exclaimed, circling Henry. His men looked at them with a mix of curiosity and uncertainty. 

Capon would feel fear—if it wasn’t for all that pride still filling his chest. 

“So, my boy… Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The leader attacked: it was clear, through his assured movements and balance, and the techniques he used, that he was an extremely skilled fencer. He was strong yet patient; he had impeccable rhythm and great focus. He must have fought many battles—many duels—and come out of them victorious. 

Capon wanted to stand up but couldn’t; he could only watch, still. At least his head was no longer bleeding. 

He watched the leader dispense strike after strike: and Henry parried them all, even though his exhaustion became apparent in the last couple of times he guided his opponent's blade away. Then, Henry delivered a riposte—and a well-timed hew, then another, then a feint, and a strike—and Hans heard the bandits murmur, surprised. They must have assumed the duel would be short and its result obvious: they were wrong.

Hans watched, still filled with pride, as Henry kept his footwork clean and focused. He watched as he yielded into the attack, feigning surprise—the Prague knight’s lessons taking root—and then cast the man’s strike aside with power enough to make him stumble. 

Regaining his balance, the leader brought his sword up in a quick, diagonal cut aimed right at Henry’s legs: and he would have cut through his tendons and won the fight outright, if not for the heavy steel greaves Henry wore.

The greaves Hans helped him put on the night before, with trembling hands and the heart fluttering in his chest like a wild bird. 

The reverberating sound of metal clashing against metal echoed through the air—and then, as the leader had to focus on withstanding the impact against his sword, Henry took a wide sideways step and charged with a perfectly timed crooked-hew, his blade cutting vertically from above. He would have killed a slower opponent outright, splitting his head open: but the man was quick and strong, and he parried and pushed against Henry’s blade with his.

As they bound in a clinch, Hans stopped holding his breath. Henry was far from tiring out—even father from giving up—and he was, as Capon knew from personal experience, a fucking menace in a clinch. 

Henry pushed the man’s blade off—it slid off his with a silvery sound—and crashed the pommel right into his face, deep into the eye socket. The squelch that tore through the air had nothing to do with the mud they fought in. 

Two bandits immediately ran up to Henry to restrain him; a dagger at his throat right away, to stop him from finishing the leader off. 

If they asked Hans, he’d tell them they could use a third man to hold Henry. With that something that shifted in him—unlocked, unhinged—it could take a whole garrison to tame him. No leash or muzzle or dagger could stop him. 

Pride within Capon’s chest was joined by another feeling: a bit darker and heavier, but just as sweet. 

“Enough!” The leader shouted, his voice strained with pain. “Damn it, you bastard!”

The man rose to his feet, breath ragged. His men eased the grip on Henry, shifting their attention to him.

“You’re good…”

“Zizka, you’re alright?” His second in command asked, his dagger still at Henry’s throat. 

The leader turned around—his face bloodied and contorted in pain—and walked slowly up to Henry. 

Hans managed to sit up. Shit, he should have been worried or scared or remorseful. But he wasn’t—he wasn’t. Within him, it was all pride and… Some strange, puzzling certainty: as dazzling and confusing as the one he felt the night prior, fastening the buckles of Henry’s armour in the darkness of the Trosky shed. 

They were lucky. Not just lucky—they were fortunate. The fates smiled upon them, time and time again. 

“So…” The leader said, holding his hand up to his eye. “Do you reckon you can trust an outlaw to keep his word of honour? Hm?”

In the loaded silence that fell, Hans exhaled slowly. The dagger disappeared from Henry’s throat, sheathed; two men approached Capon and lifted him up, surprisingly careful in how they dealt with him. When he turned his head, Henry was being escorted two paces behind. The worst of the danger, at least for now, passed. They were alright—Hans grinned at Henry sneakily, even though there was blood on his teeth. 

The fates smiled at them… 

The fates fucking loved them, truth be told. 

A near-mirror image of what happened at Trosky—as Hans got thrown into the cell, falling to his knees onto the half-rotten straw strewn about the floor, Henry focused all his attention at assessing whether his knees didn’t hit against the rough surface too hard. Even though he himself got thrown in just as violently—in not more—Henry immediately scrambled to his feet just to walk up to Hans and check on him. 

“I hope Hanush has enough coin to pay the ransom for you,” the leader of the rabble said, closing the cell door behind them. 

Henry got up, his gaze fixed on old Nebak and his servants in the cell next to them. Then, he turned to the man speaking—and there was something strange in his eyes, dimmed but still dangerous. 

“As for you…” The leader said, his face nearly touching the bars, “Well… We’ll see about you.”

Then, the leader gestured at his men—and they left.

He did not care whether old Nebak was watching, or the hired hands; Henry immediately kneeled in front of Hans, who, still shaken, sprawled across the straw with a dazed expression on his fair face.

“Hans?” Henry asked and his voice was painfully soft, even if raspy from the duel and the shouting. “Hans? Are you alright?”

“Yeah…” Capon coughed out. He felt Henry’s palm in the crook of his neck, steadying his head and looking into his eyes: assessing. 

It was just like that pen in the Rattay green; it was just like the wedding, with that annoying cunt in the cart as Ulrich’s guards hauled them to Trosky. 

Henry’s palm fit the crook of his neck as if it was created for the sole purpose of resting there. Hans felt that was both very silly and very profound, at the same time. 

“Are you sure?” Henry’s brows were furrowed, worry still present on his face.

“Yes?”

“Maybe you are concussed,”  Henry muttered under his breath. He pulled his hand away. “Why do you keep smiling like this?”

Hans didn’t even realise it—but he was. He felt the tips of his ears turn hot. 

“Because the fates smiled on us again, my fearless escort,” he replied, trying to keep his tone confident and light-hearted. “We got lucky, again!”

“You call that luck? The massacre? And the duel in which I could have died?” Henry asked.

A week or three ago, this would probably lead to an argument—but after everything they’ve been through in the past couple of days, there was a level of familiarity between them that allowed Hans to immediately spot the spark in Henry’s eyes; understand, right away, that this wasn’t Henry taking offence, or some example of insolence. It was an invitation into further conversation—the need to challenge each other.

Because, otherwise, they were simply too similar, were they not? Looking into each other’s eyes was nearly like looking in the mirror, when they were together. They needed this push and pull—they needed to keep learning each other, and where their differences were, and how to keep balancing each other out. 

“Well, I’d say the duel happening was very lucky, in our circumstance,” Hans replied, “But the way you destroyed him in that very duel, yes, that wasn’t luck. That was pure skill and stubbornness that only Henry of Skalitz possesses!”

There it was: that spark. Henry’s eyes, looking into his, softened—and then narrowed in self-satisfied laughter. 

“Destroyed, I don’t know…”

“That Krumphau, Henry? It was incredible, there’s no other way to put it,” Hans grinned again. He could still taste blood in his mouth—but it was an irrelevant detail compared to the way Henry looked at him. 

“And the footwork, my lord?” Henry teased. “Was it up to par this time?”

“You are a fast learner, especially with such a skilled teacher as I, what can I say,” Hans shrugged, smiling. 

“I don’t know if chastising me for shoddy footwork counts as teaching…”

“Chastising, Henry! By God!” Hans laughed. “I’d never!”

“Well...”

“Also, it did work, didn’t it?” Capon grinned as Henry shook his head, trying not to laugh. 

One of Nebak’s servants in the cell next to them huffed loudly, annoyed. 

“Oh, right,” Hans whispered. “I forgot we’re in deep shit there for a moment.”

“Aye,” Henry replied, voice hushed as well. 

They tried to switch to being fully serious—they were, indeed, in deep shit after all—but the second they looked at each other again, they both snorted in laughter.

“Maybe we both got hit in the head a little too hard,” Henry said, quietly, trying really hard not to laugh again. 

“Perhaps, perhaps! Who knows at this point.”

“Hans, I-” Henry hesitated for a second and then shook his head, dispelling his worry. “I’m really glad you’re alright. It got rough out there, for a second.”

“I told you, fates favour us!” 

“I think they favour you, actually. But I’m happy to tag along,” Henry grinned. 

“Tag along, eh?”

“Bask in your luck! Maybe some of it will rub off on me.”

“Let’s hope that luck sticks with us for now,” Hans said, his gaze darting to the door. Something was happening out there; someone was coming. “Or any rubbing off ends up being out of the question.”

Henry chose not to say anything—he just tried not to laugh. 

“Aye,” he said, at last. “None of that if we both die here.”

“Exactly,” Capon replied, entirely oblivious to why Henry was on the verge of giggling. “What?”

“Nothing,” Henry shrugged, grinning. “What do you think happens now?”

“Well, he’ll probably send a messenger to Rattay with the ransom demands. Once Hanush haggles enough and agrees to pay, we’ll be free. If they keep their word, that is.”

“The ransom is for you,” Henry pointed out. “I think I’ll have to-”

“Obviously I’m not leaving you behind and letting you rot here. Whatever they demand, Hanush will pay for both of us.”

“I’m not entirely sure it’ll work like that, Hans.”

“It will. You’ll see.”

“I like how certain you are,” Henry added, his voice underlined with worry. 

“I am certain that we are both getting out of here. You’ll see. All of this is my fault anyway-”

Before Henry could oppose him, the commotion outside stopped and the door opened with a loud thud. The leader of the men came in, with his second in command following closely behind. He approached their cell—a bloody bandage wrapped around his head, covering the eye ruined by the pommel of Henry’s sword. 

“Sir Capon,” the man started, voice veering somewhere between forced courtesy and disdain. “In my message to the Lord of Leipa, I would like to assure him of your wellbeing.”

“Certainly,” Hans replied, crossing his arms. His tone was even worse.

“And as I am a man of honour, I would like to ensure my assurances are true.”

“Go on.”

“Would you allow us to look you over? We have a woman here who knows potions and ointments, and I would like her to check whether you’ve not been injured.”

“It’s not necessary. I’m well,” Hans said, looking at the man with not an ounce of emotion. “My squire knows these things as well and already took care of me. We do not require the help of your people.”

The leader shook his head slowly—tried not to give in to whatever emotions were happening within him.

Hans looked at Henry, for a brief second: he was standing upright, defensive, ready to jump into action if anything happened—but he was also smiling, very slightly, and Hans could swear he could see a faint shadow of blush on his face. 

“Very well,” the leader said—and was suddenly interrupted as the door behind them opened again. 

Hans did not look at the door; instead, he looked at Henry.

The smile disappeared from his face as if it was never there: his readiness to act changed, too, into an aggressive, furious stance. Something dark happened, again, and Hans could hardly believe how absolute that change was; even Henry’s eyes changed, turning into something scarier. 

Then, as he looked at the silhouette standing in the door, he understood.

Istvan Toth. 

He looked at Henry again, and felt his heart skip a beat. Henry lunged at the bars of the cell, armoured hands hitting against them loudly. 

“You! Toth!” Henry’s voice was rough, dripping with rage. “You swine!”

Toth raised his eyebrows; he tried to rein in his surprise but wasn’t entirely successful. He took a step back—then two. There was something else there, other than just shock; Hans did not want to think about what it could be. 

“You’re lucky I can’t get at you,” Henry growled, “you treacherous cunt!”

The unbearable tension in the cell threatened to erupt. 

“Don’t bark at me, you dog!” The man countered, rage skilfully veiling his surprise. Hans felt blood rush to his head. “Who the hell do you think you are?!”

“Where’s my sword?!” Henry shouted; the leader and his men looked at each other in shock. 

“Who is this madman?” Toth turned to them, gesturing at Henry. “Surely you’re not going to listen to some vagabond?!”

Hans took a step closer to Henry. He wanted him to know he was there, right behind him, through whatever was about to happen next. He hated the fact that Henry would not look at him. 

“What, but you think he should listen to Sigismund’s bitch?!” Henry’s voice was rough from shouting and rage. Hans felt both unable to close the distance between them with Henry in this state—and pulled towards him, in some strange and puzzling way. 

“Enough!” The leader yelled out. 

Hans looked at him, briefly, and very quickly understood: he was not a foolish man. He might have gotten tricked by Toth initially—but he saw through him now. All he needed for a little push.

“What’s he talking about?” He asked. Henry turned to Hans.

“Well,” Capon laughed bitterly, “you clearly don’t know your own men… Although, this one is Sigismund’s man. We’ve already had the honour.”

“They’re making up shit to avoid the gallows!” Toth cried out, gesturing wildly. 

Too late, you dolt, Hans thought to himself. You’re fucked. 

“So that’s why you were so keen to avoid that battle?” The leader asked, turning to Istvan and gesturing at his men. 

Hans did not hear the rest of the conversation—he only registered, as if through fog, that Toth was thrown in the cell next to them, and that the leader they called Zizka left with his men in a hurry.

All he could really do was look at Henry: overtaken by fury, his eyes dark and indecipherable. Something unpleasant churned within Hans’ gut and he felt a wave of uneasiness come over him.

Why now, Hans thought feverishly, looking at Henry and having trouble reconciling that rage with the way he laughed just a minute ago. Why now, and why him? Out of all people, why did it have to be Toth today, here?

It seemed like he had just established some faint, precious line of understanding with Henry—and now he feared it was gone, again; the man he managed to coax out of his shell a bit turned enraged, furious, nearly mad with vengeance. 

He wanted to put his hand on Henry’s shoulder, but his legs refused to let him take even a step closer. 

What he had the biggest trouble accepting, however, was that this changed Henry—barely restrained, ready to pounce, teeth bared—was fascinating. Magnetic. Hans could not step closer but he couldn’t take his eyes away either. It felt wrong.

Henry lunged at the wooden bars separating the cells; they creaked beneath his armoured gloves and his furious weight. Old Nebak and his servants backed away, wincing at the suddenness and volume of it—stepped away as far from the bars as they could; as far as they could from bloodied and frenzied Henry.

Istvan stepped closer. 

“Now you’re done for,” Henry said through gritted teeth, his voice low. “You’ll pay for everything.” 

“Why do you think so?” Toth’s voice was mocking; he was smiling. “The little misunderstanding with the captain will get sorted out soon enough. One way or another.”

Only the bars separated them—their faces were inches away from each other. They breathed the same air. Henry pushed against the wood.

Istvan kept smiling, his mouth curled up in a cruel, self-satisfied smirk. He wanted to rile Henry up further and Henry was falling for it. Hans felt nauseous. 

Why won’t you look at me, he thought, and it was a bitter echo in his head. Why are you looking at him?

They were too close; the tension in the air was too much—and Toth only got closer, his cheek nearly pressing against the bars. 

“What’s interesting is that you cross my path again,” he said, tilting his head, “when I’m doing what I do best.”

Henry did not reply—Hans could hear his ragged breaths.

If he could hear them it meant Toth could feel them, on his skin, right against his cheek. Capon felt nauseous again, worse this time. He remembered what Henry told them when they rode out to bathe: that he was tortured at Vranik and that the cruelty that took place there was nearly too much to bear. 

“Fate, I suppose!” Toth’s smile widened, and it was sharp and mean. “We have the same fairy godmothers, it seems.”

How dare you speak of fate, you cunt, Hans thought feverishly. He felt his own breathing get uneven. 

“Whores,” Toth added, and only smiled further when Henry thrashed against the bars. 

“You dog! You’re in the mood for jokes? After what you did here in the fortress?” Old Nebak said from the depth of the cell. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t strangle you on the spot!”

“Strangling your rescuer would be a mistake, Sir Jaromir!” Istvan said, turning his face only slightly away from Henry; unhappy to be forced to stop looking into his eyes. “A big mistake… And most likely a mortal sin, too!”

Toth laughed, and suddenly Capon felt the walls of the cell close in; he looked at Henry’s back and wanted to call out to him, ask him to turn around— look at me, please— but he couldn’t find the words. He knew he could not leave Henry in that rage alone; he had to step into that darkness with him. But how?

“Rescuer?!”

“Don’t listen to him!” Capon cut them off, abruptly, surprised at how rough his voice came out. “He’s a liar and a traitor to this land.”

“And a loyal servant of King Sigismund and our Sir Otto von Bergow. Just like you, Sir,” Toth said, looking at Nebak. “Or am I mistaken?”

“Von Bergow?”

“Yes, I am here on his orders,” Toth explained; he was growing weary of paying attention to anyone else but Henry. He looked at Hans, briefly—there was something strange and unpleasant in his gaze—and he smirked, again. 

Perhaps Nebak wanted to say something more—perhaps Hans should have—but silence fell again, interrupted only by Henry’s heavy breathing. Toth turned again to look him in the eyes.

Capon felt a wave of nausea as he understood Henry held Toth’s gaze this whole time; that he couldn't—or wouldn’t—look away, as if in trance. 

“Where’s my sword?” Henry asked and it was a growl closer to animal than human voice. 

“Your sword?” Toth tutted, smiling. His eyes fell to Henry’s lips for a moment. “You’re still bothered about that? It’s only a piece of iron…”

His tone was mocking—but it was also… Strangely familiar.

Intimate, Hans thought, and felt his jaw clench so hard a spike of sharp pain travelled through his temples. 

“I have to admit your father did a good job on it, though. Beautiful work… His last.”

Toth’s gloved hand rested on the wooden bar right next to Henry’s, and no one noticed it but Hans alone. 

“You won’t look so pleased with yourself when I’ll gut you with it,” Henry spat out. He did not look away for a second. He did not move his hand. 

“I’m not sure you’ll get the opportunity, to be honest…” Toth tilted his head again; a curious motion, both mocking and infuriating. “If either of us has a chance of getting out of here alive, it’s certainly not you.”

Toth laughed—but it was bitter. What was that sudden note in his voice? Hans took a step closer, unknowingly.

Was it sadness?

“Ha,” Henry shook his head, his fingers curling around the wood with even more force. “And how do you intend to get out of here?”

Toth moved his hand slowly—up, along the wooden bar. The black leather nearly touched Henry’s cheek.

“Oh, Henry,” he said, and his voice was low; purposefully quiet. “As if you didn’t know me.”

“Zizka would be mad to release you,” Capon said. He wanted Toth to look at him instead—but the man didn’t budge, his eyes still only focused on Henry. 

“Offered enough coin, he’d release anyone. You can’t pay a band of mercenaries with nice feelings.” Toth shook his head. “After what happened here, he’s in a hurry… I wouldn’t expect him to wait until a messenger brings ransom back from Rattay.”

Capon wanted to say something but his words failed him once again. All he could do was look at Henry, his shoulders still heaving with heavy breaths. 

“Either way… Soon he won’t have any use for either of you, ransom or not,” Toth shrugged. “Which brings me back to that question I asked you at my camp.”

Hans’ mouth fell open as he realised Henry’s shoulders stopped moving—he held his breath, as if turned to stone. 

“Although, I believe, Erik asked you first, no?” Istvan smiled; once again, he was speaking quietly, making sure Capon felt the sting of the intimacy of it. 

“Never,” Henry barked out, raspy and breathy. 

“Ah, Henry,” he shook his head slowly. “You don’t have to pretend in front of young Lord Capon here. He won’t be-”

“Shut your whore mouth,” Henry hissed through gritted teeth. “Never.”

Then, Henry hit the wooden bars with his hand; Nebak and the servants winced. Toth laughed. 

“Are you afraid?” He asked, moving his gloved hand along the bars again. He looked at Capon, too, for a heartbeat or two—and smiled in a way so obscene it made his blood boil. 

“I’ll kill you,” Henry uttered, his face nearly pressed against the bars.

“No one’s yet built the gallows I’ll swing from, boy,” Toth laughed, again. Leather-clad palm slithered across the wood; once again, nearly brushed against Henry’s face. Henry did not move away.

“I don’t think Henry’s planning to hang you,” Hans said, at last, stepping closer to the bars—stepping closer to Henry. The second he got closer, Henry flinched, as if he forgot Hans was there. “He’s more likely to rip your gut open.”

Hans reached out, glad his hands didn’t shake, and put his palm on Henry’s shoulder. 

“And I’ll be glad to help him,” Hans continued, feeling a wave of strange calm wash over him. That certainty, again. Whatever he needed to do to reach Henry, to get him back, he would.

Henry was about to turn around and look at him—at last—when the door to the jail opened once again, the faint grey light from outside falling onto the straw-strewn floor. 

Beneath his palm, Hans felt Henry tense up—shiver. He stepped away, abruptly, and Hans’ arm was left hanging in the air for a second. 

The man, his white armour bloodied and dirty, stood in the doorway: his eyes darted, assessing the situation. First, to Toth, then to Henry. Then, to Toth’s gloved hand nearly caressing Henry’s cheek. Then, to Capon and Nebak and everything else. He looked taken aback; uncertain, shocked. 

“Erik!” Toth smiled; took his hand off the bar deliberately slowly. “We’re just about to do some gutting!”

“There’s no time for it,” the man coughed out, throat rough from exertion. He ran to the cell; opened it and immediately passed Toth his sword. He was ready to run out, again, but stopped in his tracks as he noticed Istvan unsheathe the weapon. 

He waved it in front of Henry’s face, another smirk warping his features into something venomous. 

“No,” Erik stood between them, his hand finding Toth’s on the hilt. “We have to go, now.”

Old Nebak and the servants did not wait; they ran out immediately, disappearing outside. 

Erik looked at Toth for a moment—then turned around and looked at Henry. Capon couldn’t decipher what his gaze held or meant; he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to think about any of it. 

“There’ll be time when we meet again,” Istvan whispered.

And then, as abruptly as they appeared—they were gone. 

Silence fell in the cell; the air was sour.

“What the fuck was that?” Capon asked, unsure what else to say. Henry was pacing around the cell, frantic; kicked the wooden bucket in the corner, then punched the stone wall of the jail.

“Fuck it!” He yelled, furious, hardly able to catch his breath. “Kurva, I don’t-”

Hans swallowed, feeling his throat tighten. Henry groaned, unable to calm his breathing enough to speak. 

“Henry,” Capon took a step in his direction. “Henry?”

Henry just shook his head; he was in no state to speak at all. Hans felt himself panic; he didn’t fully understand what transpired. He hated the fact that he didn’t know what happened at Vranik—that he didn’t know how to help Henry, what to say, what to do. And he was afraid: Henry could not catch his breath and wouldn’t answer him, either. 

Please look at me.

All that rage—all that darkness. All that venom. How could Hans even begin to unravel it? How could he even try to reach Henry in that state? 

It’s all my fault, he thought, feverishly. It’s all my fault. 

“Henry, please talk to me,” he said, and hated how his voice faltered. 

Why does it hurt so fucking bad, when he turns his eyes away from me?

Henry shook his head again. The silence was so heavy Hans was afraid it would break his back. His heart, perhaps.

Then, Henry looked up—looked into Hans’ eyes—and closed the distance between them in one stride. Abruptly, he reached for Hans’ hand; brought it up, slightly forcefully, to his chest.

Pressed it against his heart.

Henry’s heart pounded so wildly in his chest Hans was afraid it would tear it apart. He understood Henry simply couldn’t speak, even if he wanted to—his heartbeat frantic, heavy. The thud of it so loud it muddled any other thought in Hans' head.

Henry’s breaths stopped being shallow and uneven as he held his hand to his chest, covering it with his own.

And beneath Hans’ palm, in the darkness of that cell, Henry’s heart started to calm down. Beat by beat, second by second—slowly, steadily. Hans could feel it; every beat of it. It thrummed against the tips of his fingers; slow reverberation of it climbing up his wrist. 

“Hal,” he simply said, quietly. 

Henry looked at him—exhaled slowly as their eyes met. 

Kept his palm pressed against his heart for a moment longer. 

Chapter Text

If I believed I could free myself, by dying,

from amorous thoughts that bind me to the earth,

I would already have laid these troubled limbs

and their burden in the earth myself:

but because I fear to find a passage

from tears to tears, and one war to another,

I remain in the midst, alas, of staying and crossing

on this side of the pass that is closed to me.

There has been enough time now

for the merciless bow to fire its final arrow

bathed and dyed already with others’ blood:

yet Love does not take me, or that deaf one

who has painted me with his own pallor,

and still forgets to call me to him.

Sonnet 36: S’io credesse per morte essere scarco. “Il Canzoniere,” Petrarch. 

Looking out onto the vast lands spreading before the Nebakov fortress, Hans found himself troubled by melancholy once again. On one hand, he should be glad: happy that fates smiled upon them once more, and Father Godwin’s arrival saved their skin; happy that it was, indeed, Istvan who appeared and let them convince Zizka he was being played. He should be glad they were alright.

Unfortunately, his thoughts turned too dark to be able to appreciate their luck. Deep inside, Hans was aware they wouldn’t need that luck, if it wasn’t for him screwing everything up again. And again. And all the time—always.

He couldn’t even find any useful words to calm Henry down; he couldn’t help him or even let him know he could count on him. Istvan and Erik ran. His head fucking hurt from that mace. He was useless. Again. 

They were set to leave for Rattay the next morning—Zizka with them. Perhaps there, at least, Hans could prove to be of some use; if his uncle didn’t have a different idea, of course. 

The skies were grey; it must have started to rain somewhere farther, above the forest—wind brought the smell of it along the wave of cooler air. Hans inhaled, slowly, trying to calm his thoughts. The sun would set soon; he hoped clouds would part at least a bit; let some of that warm light in. 

He thought he wanted to return to Rattay; God knows he kept thinking about it all the time for the past couple of days. But was it really Rattay that he wanted to return to? Or was it just the past? Rattay on the brink of summer? Before all of this happened to them? 

Hans could hear Henry somewhere in the distance, from the depth of the fort; he was talking with people, laughing, tending to the wounded, bickering with Zizka’s second in command; joking with Godwin about places and people and events Hans didn’t know. 

Hans just stood there, alone, on the wall. After all, who would need his help?

As always, he dutifully ignored the fact that it was him who refused to help—saying he could still see stars from the bang on his head—and it was, again, Henry who had to step in.

What a fucking mess, he thought. If we go to Rattay tomorrow… Things won’t be the same, will they?

He could see, in his mind, the deliberations in the Upper Castle chambers: Hanush and Radzig, and Zizka, and himself, and who knows what other people… Would Henry be there? Or would he go to the mill? They’ve been away for quite some time, after all; that sweetheart of his must have missed him terribly.

Hans knew he would, if he was her. 

With the war brewing, with all those plots and machinations, would they even have time to ride out to hunt? To sit around a campfire together—to visit the baths? 

Or would Henry be just glad to be free of him at last? Once he would no longer be tied by Radzig’s orders to assist him… Perhaps he wouldn’t even want to look at Hans again, until circumstance and duty forced them to work together once more. 

Hans sighed; started picking at the skin right next to his nails. 

He hated it: all that worry, all that overthinking, all that fucking melancholy. He hated it his whole life—always rushed to keep himself busy, ever since he could remember, just so he wouldn’t stay alone with his thoughts for too long. As a child, he’d fuss and cry for attention, he’d misbehave or break things, preferring being scolded repeatedly rather than just being alone, unacknowledged. He would never sit still; if there was no tutor or nanny to keep him busy, he would run off to the creek, or to the shepherd’s hut, or to the outer bailey, or to the forest, or the archery range; anything, anything, just to keep busy. He’d throw pebbles at the hens pecking the Rattay grass behind the tavern; he’d annoy cats or yell after dogs just to get them to bark. Then, once he had his own horse and skill enough in the saddle, he would ride out, all the time—alone or with some poor servant or two if Hanush was in a particularly pissy mood. Then, it was hunting, and then wenching, and then boozing and brawling and then bitching, always bitching, always fucking complaining.

Because even with all these endless, endless things to keep himself busy and escape that dark cloud, it never, never fucking worked.  

He would just end up sadder—and alone anyway. Crying child confined to his room for breaking another plate, or sitting alone by the creek with a miserable piece of bark with linden sails in his hands, nails bitten, skin picked; ten winters old or so, trying not to sob as he walked through Rattay grounds and saw the cats run away from him. Riding out to the fields above Neuhof, lonely and frustrated, with no one to talk to. Sitting in the tub of hot, fragrant water just pretending to laugh at whatever the girls were saying that day, in his mind feverishly wondering how it was possible to be so inadequate, so useless as him. Picking stupid fights over stupid things with stupid people, and then realising it only proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was the only fool in that equation; and then getting scolded by Hanush, called a useless fool and a burden and a disgrace, and with no one to even fucking ask if his split lip hurt or not. 

He winced as his finger dug too deep into the small wound under his nail; did his best to stop playing with his hands, instead rubbing his neck nervously. The collar of his coat was annoyingly tight, somehow. 

Endless, endless melancholy. Something had to be wrong with him, he was certain of it. 

Below, the wooden gate opened: Henry walked through, unaware he was passing right under Hans. He was carrying something, most likely for the wounded—lost in his thoughts. 

Of course he’s needed and useful, Hans thought. He’s never alone. He’s never this fucking sad for no reason. 

Suddenly, Henry tripped on some small rock protruding slightly from the path: didn’t fall but had to catch his balance, wobbly and surprised. His arms flailed, awkwardly, and he let out a quiet but overwhelmingly undignified oop! 

Hans snorted in abrupt laughter—so earnest he surprised even himself. And then, even further, as Henry quickly turned around and looked up, shocked, eyebrows raised and his face turning absolute crimson. 

“You ought to watch your step, Henry,” Hans yelled down, still laughing. 

“Oh, very funny!” He replied, eyebrows furrowed, trying to use rage to mask his embarrassment. 

“It sort of is, I’m sorry to say,” Capon added, leaning against the wooden balustrade and looking down at Henry. “Would be even funnier if you actually fell.”

“Well,” Henry scratched his neck, looking up and grinning. “That would be funny, true.”

“What do you have there?”

“Spirits, for all those wounded bastards down there.”

“Oooh, so you’d fall and spill,” Hans giggled.

“As long as it makes you laugh, my lord, I’d bear it!”

“Alas, you are my page and not a jester, eh?”

“I’ll take wearing plate over bells any day,” Henry laughed. “My neck hurts, Hans, from looking up at you like this! Dismiss me so I can go take care of those poor sods back there.”

“Huh?” Hans laughed, rubbing his temples. “Since when do you need me to dismiss you? Are we at some court in Prague?”

“It’ll make you feel better,” Henry’s grin was wide and insufferable. Wholly endearing, too. 

“God Almighty, you truly think me cruel and simple, no?”

“Nooo, never, my lord.”

“Insolence!” Hans yelled out in feigned outrage, his cheeks starting to hurt from laughter. 

“My lord!” Henry howled, desperately, hand clasped dramatically over his heart.

“Alas, you are dismissed! Begone from my sight!”

Henry snorted so loud the whole of Nebakov must have heard it. 

“And watch your step!” Hans shouted after him, and laughed as he saw Henry shake his head while walking away. “Once you’re done being a Good Samaritan, come join me up here!”

“Aye, my lord!” Henry yelled back without turning around. 

The mercenaries holding guard by the southern wall looked at each other and shook their heads in annoyed disbelief. 

Hans sighed to himself, content. Somehow, he couldn’t even remember what he was thinking about a moment ago. 

Waiting for Henry to return and join him, he decided to focus on what was happening at the fort: he saw men packing, loading their supplies and weapons onto wagons. Preparing the horses—and they had so many horses— hauling sacks and fletching arrows. He saw Father Godwin somewhere in the distance, talking to Zizka; some guards checking the open cask of wine in the courtyard and shaking their heads in disappointment at the fact it was empty. 

Then, he noticed the only woman at Nebakov: the one they offered would take a look at his injuries, as she knew herbs and potions and such. 

Oh, Hans thought. That’s the wench Henry took to the meadow. 

He giggled to himself, his chest once again filling with that surprising feeling. Pride. 

She was very pretty—Klara—and from what he saw of her interactions with the mercenaries, she could hold her ground, too, and did not mince words. Not some naive girl, desperate for the attention of whomever was willing to give it. Impressive. 

Who else to woo her, if not Henry? 

Or, rather: who else to woo, being her, if not Henry? 

The sun started setting: low above the horizon, the heavy clouds parted just enough to let the orange and red hues seep through. 

“Don’t tell me you have something else to do,” he said the second he spotted Henry below. “Come up here, there’s a stunning view of the sunset.”

Henry just smiled, looking up—and ran up the wooden stairs. 

“Oh, that is a nice sunset,” he said, leaning against the balustrade next to Capon. “With how grey it was before, I feared we wouldn’t get to see the sun today at all.”

“Me too. But, luckily, at least in this it seems we are lucky today.”

“Aye.”

Silence fell for a short moment; Hans felt the last rays of sun on his face. The clouds in the skies might have parted—but the ones looming over his tired head, as it turned out, did not.

“It was a hard bloody day today, eh?” Henry asked, turning to look at him.

“I swear, I don’t know how many more times we’re going to have to change sides before luck smiles on us.” Capon’s tone had a sudden solemn note to it.

“We were just talking about how fates favour you, no? Look on the bright side,” Henry said, bumping his shoulder with his lightly. “We survived, and that’s the main thing, right?”

Hans did not reply; clenched his jaw to stop himself from sighing. Some bird trilled in the forest, far away, and his song carried. 

“I hear we’re going back to Rattay tomorrow,” Henry continued, voice soft, patching up the silence. Hans looked ahead, stubbornly, not wanting to turn his eyes to Henry.

“Great!” He replied, and his tone turned sour against his own will. “I’ll be glad to see the back of Trosky and fucking Von Bergow once and for all! Though I’d rest easier if he was dead.”

Henry did not say anything—but Hans could feel his shoulder tense up. 

“I was humiliated,” he said, his finger digging into the wound by his nail again. “Ambushed, wounded, and then nearly hanged, all because of him!” He sighed. “Just because I was trying to do the responsible thing.”

In the short silence that fell, the only thing Hans could think about was how he put Henry in danger, too, and Henry must have known that—must have thought him a fool as well. Useless, again—as always. He saw him through all that humiliation and-

“You did what you could.” Henry’s voice was serious but soft, still. He pressed his shoulder against Hans’, again, and did not move away. “It’s just that circumstances turned against us.”

Hans turned his face to look at him; was surprised to find that Henry’s eyes were fixed on him, with something strange in his look. He quickly turned to stare ahead again, across the Nebakov grounds. 

“I-” Hans cleared his throat. “Exactly. You’re right.”

“I tend to be,” Henry shrugged, smiling. 

“Thank you, Henry.”

“No need.”

“Even Hanush will have to admit our mission couldn’t have succeeded under the circumstances…” He sighed again. “Either way, I’ll never forget this little trip of ours.”

“Same here,” Henry replied. “Audentes Fortuna Iuvat…”

Hans laughed, honestly. How did Henry do that? What sort of a skill did he possess, to cast those dark clouds aside?

“Ha, exactly!”

Silence fell again, comfortable this time; interrupted only by the far away birdsong.

“Well, now that it’s all over, what would you say to-” Hans turned to look at Henry and caught his gaze immediately again, surprised—caught him staring. “What?”

“Hm?”

“You’re staring at me, Henry.”

“Just making sure your injuries aren’t too bad,” Henry replied, quickly. “Some of these scratches look deep. They might scar.”

“Aren’t you the one always telling me that lying is such a grave sin?” Hans asked.

To his surprise, Henry did not know what to say right away: he looked at him, slightly surprised, with a funny look on his face. Caught staring and caught lying. 

“Aye, apologies for staring, then,” Henry said, at last. Blush crawled up his neck. 

“I’m not chastising you, you stubborn beast, you don’t have to apologise,” Capon shook his head, sighing. “I was just wondering if there was something wrong with me, or something.”

“No, no,” Henry shifted his weight to the other leg; scratched his neck right above the pourpoint. “You were saying?”

“I wanted to ask if you’d be up for rolling a few dice together.”

“If you have anything to bet with, my lord?” Henry grinned.

“Don’t worry about me, what about you? Aren’t you completely skint?”

“Thanks for your concern, but I still have a few groschen!”

“Maybe not for long!” Capon smirked, looking at Henry. “Enough talk! Let’s let the wings of our Fortuna carry us away!”

Walking down the wooden stairs with Henry following right behind him, Hans couldn’t help but feel the dark clouds looming over his head dissipate fully; he had no doubt it was mostly thanks to Henry. He didn’t mind, either. 

It was a bit hard to focus on the dice: he threw them sort of absent-mindedly, hardly keeping score, and just quickly letting Henry have his turn. In his mind, a new barrage of thoughts occupied him fully.

Maybe it won’t be that bad, he thought, sneaking a look at Henry’s focused face. When we go back to Rattay, maybe it won’t be that bad.

Maybe they would have plenty of time: to ride out, to hunt, to sit by the fire or at the baths. Maybe Henry would prefer to spend time with him—and not anyone else. Maybe before Hanush and Radzig and Zizka settle on a plan, the two of them could sneak away-

“Ugh,” Henry rubbed his temples. “Luck favours you again.”

“Oh, well,” Hans felt himself smile widely. “You just take too many risks!”

“Sometimes it pays off,” Henry muttered.

“And sometimes it doesn’t!”

“I can still win this…” Henry was talking to himself more than to Capon, rubbing his temples with one hand and hovering over the dice with the other. His eyebrows were furrowed in deep focus as he debated whether he should keep going—risking it again—or move on. 

“Careful with all that thinking,” Hans giggled, “or there’ll be smoke coming out of your ears in a second.”

Henry huffed, still in deep focus; then, he shuffled in his chair, shifting his weight slightly; as if it was supposed to help him reach a clever conclusion. Hans was about to comment on it—make fun of him for it, again—when Henry’s legs underneath the dice table shifted with that movement, too, and suddenly their legs were touching. Ankles pressed against each other. 

Capon’s initial, panicked reflex was to move away—but he didn’t, and then Henry didn’t also. Truth be told, Henry did not even notice anything, he was so focused on the dice and trying to win; but Hans felt a wave of warmth overcome him, threatening him with a red bloom of blush slowly spreading across his cheeks. 

He’ll move away the second he notices it, he thought to himself, biting his lip. You’re getting this for a couple of heartbeats at best, you greedy shit. 

Hans made his peace with being selfish and enjoying these stolen moments a long time ago; and so he made sure not to move his leg even an inch, hoping it would lead to Henry not noticing what was happening for at least a moment longer. 

Even as Hans threw his dice, trying to appear entirely casual, he kept his lower body frozen and entirely unmoving. All just to prolong that moment: that stolen little crumb of undeserved touch.

“Alright, not risking it,” Henry said, shaking his head. “Your turn again.”

Having said that, Henry shifted in his chair again—Hans felt his heart sink, knowing what was about to happen—and moved his leg. 

Of course-

Hans’ heart started beating much faster when he realised Henry didn’t move his leg away. He moved it closer towards him, to press against his leg more—their calves now touching.

Oh God Almighty. 

“Your turn, Sir Hans?”

“Right, yes,” Hans said, clearing his throat, and throwing his dice for the final time; he won, fair and square, and by quite a lot. “Well, would you look at that!”

Henry just groaned, hiding his face in his hands for a second. Their calves still pressed against each other—Hans felt the heat emanating from Henry as if he was burning—and he started wondering what made his head spin more: their calves touching or how entirely casual Henry was about it. As if it was the most natural thing in the world. 

“Damn it!” Hans laughed, and a little bit too loud to come out entirely nonchalant. “How can you lose so fucking much?”

“Well,” Henry laughed as well, looking up and into Hans’ eyes, “either I'm playing badly or you bloody cheated, Sir Hans.”

There was a slight shadow of a challenge in his gaze—confident and comfortable—and any other day Hans would gladly use it to rile him up more, but now he simply couldn’t focus too well: the weight of Henry’s leg against his muddled his thoughts entirely.

“Oh right, that’s it! All the blame is on my head again!” He laughed, leaning forward on the dice table, head propped up on his bent arm. “Come one, come all!” He gestured theatrically with the other hand, “Lord Capon of Pirkstein is on trial again!”

Henry laughed as well—moved his leg a bit, again, and now their knees pressed against each other, too. 

“It’s been quite a while since I was last on the gallows!” Hans exclaimed, loudly, trying to focus on saying something, anything, and not the fact that their knees-

Holy Mother of God have mercy on my soul, he thought, I will lose my fucking mind in a second.

“And you drew quite a crowd last time, eh?” Henry grinned.

“Oh my God, what a disgrace that was!”

“Well, it’s one way of catching attention, no?”

“Ha! I’d rather catch the attention of a local wench!” Hans laughed, very loud again, and hoped with his whole heart that it came out genuine. 

It was true, after all: he would much rather catch the attention of some pretty girl than the Trosky crowd leering at him as the executioner put a noose around his noble neck. It was true—it was just that Henry’s calf and ankle nearly hooked against his were also very true at that moment, and made it very difficult to think about anything else. 

“Aye, wine, women, and song!” He said, hoping it didn’t come out as just babbling feverishly. “All our problems began the day I abandoned that simple philosophy of life!”

“You want to enjoy life again?” Henry asked. “So back to the original plan?”

“Indeed! But I might have just learned something after all.”

Hans looked at Henry—who was still grinning—and at the way sunset softened his features even more than the smiling. He pressed his leg against Henry’s a bit, too, feeling his heart flutter in his chest like a giggle. 

“And can I hear this great revelation of yours?”

“I have arrived at the conclusion that a bad day is just a bad day,” he replied, smiling, and surprised himself with how honest and soft his voice came out. “And it doesn’t mean your whole life is fucked up.”

The way Henry looked at him—his blue eyes still laughing and with a hint of something more there, gratitude or relief or something else—made Hans smile even further, even against his will.

“And things always look better in the morning!” He finished, grinning. “The sooner I lie down, the better chance there is of nothing else fucking up today! So I think we should really think of going to bed, and soon, my friend!”

Why did you say it like that?! Are you stupid?

Before Hans could panic further, Henry simply laughed and nodded.

“Wise words!” He said, and stretched his arms out, yawning. Then, Henry groaned, quietly; it was clear he tried not to but it came out despite his efforts.

“What is it?” Hans asked, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Sore loser?”

“Aye,” Henry replied, his voice slightly rough.

“I mean it, though, Henry. What is it?”

“Nothing…” Henry groaned again. “It’s my shoulder.”

“Shouldn’t it heal by now?”

“It is healed, I think,” Henry tried to stretch but the armour made it very difficult. “But when it was healing, I tried not to put too much weight or strain on it and now,” he groaned again, “now it cramps up like a devil. If I fight or haul shit for too long, it-”

“And somehow you end up hauling sacks every-fucking-where you go, no?”

“See, I told you it was nothing,” Henry shook his head, getting up from the dice table with some effort. “I don’t need you to-”

The sudden absence of his leg pressing against Hans made him inhale sharply. 

“Again, God, Henry, I’m not trying to give you shit for anything,” Hans stood up as well. “It came out wrong, alright? Don’t pout.”

“Pout, my lord?” Henry looked at him, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s a noble thing, pouting, and so out of the two of us…”

“Peasants don’t pout?” Hans asked, putting his hands on his hips. “Another invaluable piece of wisdom imparted onto my humble self by the great Henry of Skalitz.”

“Your humble self can-” Henry groaned again, stopping himself.

“Oh, do go on.”

Henry looked at him—Hans noticed, to his surprise, that the circles under his eyes were surprisingly dark—and sighed. 

Why are you being a bitch again, he scolded himself in his thoughts. Even when you want to be nice, it all comes out cruel. 

“You’re right,” Henry said suddenly, shrugging. “I do haul sacks everywhere I go. That’s on me.”

“Again, Henry, that wasn’t-”

“I’m in a surprising amount of pain from this stupid cramp so I might be a bit… More irritable,” Henry managed to get out, clearly unhappy with admitting this. “I don’t want to fight.”

“We’re both tired,” Capon replied, nodding. “I hope you don’t have much to do left today? You should sleep.”

“Eh, just one thing, maybe,” Henry shrugged and immediately hissed in pain. 

Hans inhaled; sneakily, he clenched one of his fists slightly, gathering up confidence enough to say what he suddenly realised he wanted to say. Courage more than confidence, perhaps.

“Well, then you’ll do it later. We have to do something about that shoulder.”

Ha, and your voice didn’t even falter! Nicely done, he complimented himself in his thoughts, and felt himself smile slightly. 

“Right, my lord, have you been granted miraculous healing powers when I wasn’t looking?”

“Maybe,” Hans smiled. “Let’s go to the smithy, it’s where Godwin and I will sleep, and I’m certain he’s not there yet. I shall perform a miracle!”

“No bloodletting, I hope…” Henry muttered, following the young lord into the shed by the forge. 

“Without knowing the position of the planets? I’m not a fool, Henry,” Hans giggled, opening the creaking door. “Please enter the site where the miracle shall be performed,” he said, theatrically. 

Henry shook his head, laughing. 

“And disrobe,” Hans added, closing the door behind them. 

Henry’s eyebrows shot up.

“The armour has to go, Henry. Hurry up!”

Taking all that steel off took him a moment, especially given the fact that Hans leaned against the wall and watched him intently; it made Henry fumble some buckles a couple of times, hoping with his whole heart it would not be noticeable. 

Hans noticed, of course. The comfortable warmth of confidence spread within him hot like steam. 

“Alright,” Henry cleared his throat. “What now?”

“Now, shirt off, and sit down,” Hans replied, sudden focus on his face; he pulled up the wooden stool into the middle of the small room. “Go on!”

Henry pulled his shirt over his head and threw it on one of the beds; then, he sat down, slightly unsure. 

“Now,” Capon started, standing close behind him. “You might find it hard to believe, but my incredible marksman skills were not just a gift from God above.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I spent hours upon hours at the range, or in the forest, shooting,” Hans rubbed his hands together; Henry wanted to turn around and was stopped immediately. “Sit still, you impatient beast! And, as I was saying… All that shooting can mess with your muscles, and so I had to have this done a thousand times.”

“Had to have what done?”

“If you keep interrupting me, I will actually make you worse.”

“Miracle indeed…”

“So,” Hans cleared his throat; Henry could hear a smile in his voice. “There was a master of the medicinal arts at Rattay, one spring, travelling to the court of Jagiello… Well, Queen Jadwiga’s court, actually, but that’s beside the point. He taught this to my servants.”

Suddenly, Hans rested his palms on Henry’s back, at the shoulder blades. Henry flinched; goosebumps covered his skin. 

“Your hands are cold,” he quickly said. 

Hans leaned over, resting some of his weight against him—and lowering his face to his ear.

“No, they’re not,” he said, and his cocky smirk was audible. “Now, I haven’t done it myself, but I’ve had it done to me so many times I know it by heart now.”

“Alright.”

Hans straightened his back. He switched the position of his palms so that they both lay right above Henry’s left shoulder blade, right above the scar; then, in slow, circular movements of his fingers, he started applying pressure to the tense muscles there. 

Henry’s body tensed up even more. 

“Henry.”

“Mhm, yes, sorry,” Henry replied and exhaled slowly, doing his best to relax. 

“Now, it starts off nice,” Hans said, his voice a bit lower than he intended. “But it gets more intense later on, so I’m warning you.”

“Thank you for the warning, my lo-” A sudden, involuntary groan escaped Henry’s lips as Hans pushed his fingers into a particularly knotted spot. “God,” he cleared his throat; blush crawled up his neck.

“That felt good, eh?” The confidence in Hans’ tone surprised even himself.

“Aye, it really did…”

“Miracles, Henry! I told you,” Capon grinned as his skilled fingers continued their work. Soon, he added the pressure of his lower palm, flat against the muscles, digging in and pulling them slightly upwards. The heavier breaths escaping Henry’s mouth—the occasional half-moan, raspy and reined in—and the way his body relaxed beneath his hands went to Hans’ head like wine. 

Good God.

As he rested his left palm on Henry’s shoulder, steadying him—and using the right one to press harder against the shoulder blade—he allowed himself to look at Henry’s back. The scars, with the one on his shoulder standing out the most but being far from the only one; the lines against his skin where armour dug into it a bit too hard throughout the day. The marks that sun left, and youth, and charcoal dust that must have gotten into some scratched up wound, years ago. Faint, purplish horizontal lines of stretch marks on his lower back, and the way his sides rolled as he sat down, testament to Henry’s love of good food and good beer. Muscles, clearly betraying that he wielded sword and hammer alike. 

Funny, how much it changed in those weeks since he got to study him like that last—at the Rattay baths, sneaking drunken looks each time Henry got distracted by Zdena’s jokes. Hans wondered whether his own body changed, too. Well, he grew, a bit, that was certain—and even thinking about that, and the face Henry made when he noticed Hans was taller that one afternoon in the meadow, made him giggle out loud.

“All Saints watch over us if you’re laughing at me now, Hans,” Henry said, his tone slightly sour. “You were the one who came up with this, and you were-”

“Oh, shush, don’t overthink,” Hans cut him off, smiling. “I’m not laughing at you. I just thought that now, thanks to you, I can imagine what my own scar looks like.”

“Ha!” Henry brightened up immediately; Hans could feel it beneath his fingers, too. “The one on your arse, my lord?”

“Aye.”

“Wait, you don’t know how it looks?” Henry asked, trying to turn around again. Hans turned his head back to face forwards with both his hands, huffing with frustration. “Sorry.”

“How would I know? I can’t bend well enough to look at it.”

“Well, you have mirrors at Rattay?”

“Henry, do I seem like the sort of man to haul the expensive mirror we have in the Upper Castle to my chamber, just to look at my own arse?”

“Well, no…” Henry said, smirking, giving in to the pressure of Hans’ fingers again. “I assumed you’d have your servants haul it for you.”

Then, he hissed in pain as Hans’ knuckles dug into the knot on his shoulder forcefully.

“I assure you, this had nothing to do with your snark,” Hans grinned.

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure, my lord.”

“But you ought to be smart, Hal, and not go mouthing off at someone when you’re at his mercy,” he teased.

“Am I at your mercy now?”

“Are you not?”

The question hung in the air for a moment.

Hans kept to his meticulous work, amping up the pressure and humming to himself from time to time as he adjusted the position of his hands, trying his best to mimic the learned movements of his servants. 

“Well,” it was Henry breaking the silence, voice slightly husky. “I’m sure it looks good.”

Hans snorted.

“Good? It’s a scar! Not sure whether it can qualify as something that looks good.”

“Aye, but…” Henry hesitated for a moment, another press of Capon’s hand beneath his shoulder blade drawing out a long, pleased exhale. “I mean, in comparison. Look at me, I’m covered in scars. Yours is more like a mark of honour.”

“Your scars look good,” Hans blurted out before he could bite his own tongue. Felt the tips of his ears turn hot for a second. “As in, you know, they fit you.”

“Mhm,” was all that Henry let out, followed by another half-grunt. 

“Mark of honour,” Hans giggled, hoping to distract himself with jokes—away from the sudden realisation that he had, for the past however many minutes, been touching Henry’s back. Bare back. With his bare hands. And made him moan out loud. And-

“On your noble arse,” Henry finished, his tone bright and self-assured. “Fits you, too.”

“Now,” Capon changed the subject quickly, taking a step back from Henry. Luckily for Henry, he did not notice the way he flinched the second Hans stopped touching him, missing his hands immediately. “This might hurt.”

Then, Hans walked around, standing in front of Henry—did his best to ignore the way Henry’s gaze followed him, looking up, his blue eyes big and bright and with that strange something in them again—and furrowed his brows, assessing. 

“Raise your arm,” he commanded. “The other one, you genius.”

Henry complied; his eyebrows raised slightly as he realised the shoulder no longer hurt, and did not limit his range of motion anymore. 

Then, Hans took a step closer: leaned over Henry, with his chest nearly touching Henry’s cheek; hooked one arm below Henry’s armpit, reaching around for his shoulder blade and digging his fingers into it. The other hand he used to steady Henry by the crook of his neck, pressing down hard. 

“Exhale, relax, and don’t move,” he commanded, and his voice was both calm and dangerously low. Henry complied right away, and the eagerness with which he did so made Hans swallow a bit harder.

Hooking his fingers against Henry’s shoulder blade, he pulled towards himself—with force enough to stretch the muscle, hard, mobilising the connection between it and the bone. It was a sudden and powerful motion—but far from harsh.

Henry groaned—half in pleasure and half in pain—and Hans felt nearly dizzy realising he could nearly feel it reverberate through his own chest. 

Fuck. Holy Mother of God, fuck. 

He had heard that sound many times before, mostly as Henry fought, but never from such an incredibly close proximity. 

“Oh, fuck,” Henry let out, raspy, and Hans took a quick step back. 

“You alright?”

“More than alright,” He replied, testing the full range of motion returned to his shoulder. “A miracle indeed, Hans. I don’t even know what to say.”

“A simple thank you would suffice,” Hans replied, grinning. “But keep sitting, you’ll thank me in a second. Let me finish.”

He stepped behind Henry again; because of that, he did not see the entirely undignified face Henry made at the sound of that final sentence, against his better judgement.

“Some final warming up and you should be good as new,” He muttered, more to himself than to Henry. He recalled, diligently, the way the servants would rub his back and neck at the very end of each such session: large, circular motions, using the whole breadth of their hands, a perfect balance between softness and pressure. Similar to the time they had to warm him up when they found him, barely alive, in the snow behind Neuhof—but he didn’t want to think about that now. 

Instead, he focused, hard as he could, on massaging Henry’s back. It took him a moment to find the rhythm, and the right pressure, but soon he succeeded: he felt Henry ease into his touch again, relaxed and comfortable. 

He let his hands roam a bit, emboldened by Henry’s satisfied sighs—and by the absence, at least in that very moment, of those dark clouds looming over his head, making him worry. He checked how the scars felt beneath his palms; how the shoulder blades and spine felt beneath his fingertips. Traced the curve of Henry’s shoulders; pressed his palms on both sides of his neck. He had thought about doing exactly that so many times… Henry’s skin was hot to the touch—and much softer than he expected. He smelled like steel, with a sharp note of mint and the sour note of sweat; his hair, as always, inexplicably, smelled like smoke. 

Hans caught himself breathing a little bit too fast; swallowed, trying to steady his hands once they began to tremble, ever so slightly. 

“Now, this should be enough,” he said, forcing his tone to remain light-hearted. He stepped back. 

In his head, he started panicking, suddenly. 

Why do you pester him , he thought, feverish. Why do you always have to push too far?

“Yes, thank you, Hans,” Henry replied, voice raspy. He cleared his throat; did not get up to move. Silence fell. 

See? What came over you to even suggest this? 

“I’ll, uh,” Henry said, getting up abruptly and grabbing his shirt from the bed in one quick movement. “I’ll get my armour in the morning, eh? No point putting it back on now.”

“Aye,” Hans replied, turning around and pretending he was looking for something among his things left on the table by the wall. “Sure thing, Henry.”

“Thank you, again, and uh,” Henry was already at the door, rushing. “Goodnight.”

“Mhm,” Hans replied, and then the doors closed after Henry with a soft creak.

Sitting down on his bed, Hans did his best not to pick at the skin of his fingers—instead, he tried to recall the way his hands felt against Henry, and not let the doom overcome him. 

Maybe he pushed too far—but he was selfish, there was no point in denying that. He made his peace with that.

And so, he would cherish that moment, even if it was stolen; even if it was inappropriate.

Even if he had to be cruel, again, either towards himself or to Henry, just to make it hurt a bit less. 

Henry bolted out, panicked, and ran down to the shed he was supposed to sleep in—praying to God, Virgin Mary, and each Saint in the heavens that no one would cross his path on his way there. Neither his hose nor his braies, nor the shirt he feverishly put on over his head, did anything to hide how hopelessly hard he was. 

Evening fell over Nebakov; it was quiet, the only sounds interrupting the twilight silence were the occasional neighing of horses and the faraway call of thrushes. 

Hans was sitting on his bed. Father Godwin was already asleep—some wine helped with that, he was certain—snoring into the straw pillow. Capon was really glad he did not ask any questions about Henry’s armour lying about; most likely, given their proximity to the smithy, he assumed Henry left it there for the blacksmith to look over. 

Hans brushed his fingers against the cold steel of Henry’s cuirass, resting against the headboard of his bed—remembered, with slight bitterness, helping Henry put it on back at Trosky.

He wasn’t that worried then. He was certain; he was confident even though his hands trembled—and Henry… Henry wasn’t taken aback or put off. Even though Hans let his hands roam a bit that night, too, and stood so close they were nearly pressed body against body, and-

Could it be, his own voice taunted him within his mind suddenly, that you are overreacting, Sir Bitch-a-lot?

Hans cringed. 

Wait, was he?

After all, Henry didn't flinch or ask him to stop. He relaxed—his shoulder stopped hurting. He thanked him, for God’s sake, and twice. He just left in a hurry… Hurry alone should not be cause for such concern; such melancholy, such bitterness. 

See? His own voice echoed in his head. If jumping to hopeless conclusions was a part of some tournament, you’d be a champion seven times over, Capon. 

Hans swallowed—shook his head, his fair hair falling into his eyes—and decided to reach back into himself, to find that certainty from their last night at Trosky. Find that calm that overtook him back then, as he knelt in front of Henry, fastening his greaves. 

He decided, getting up quietly, that he would just go and ask. He’d just go and simply ask him: Is everything alright? Between us?

They owed each other that much, no?

Walking silently across the Nebakov grounds—nearly everyone already asleep, tired after the battle and their frantic preparations to leave at dawn—he felt surprisingly cold, evening wind sneaking under his shirt. He was about to go in a fully different direction when he spotted some movement by the jail.

It was Henry, walking in, quietly. 

Holding his breath, Hans decided to follow him. Talk to him, of course… At some point. Check what the hell the man was doing, first. 

He sneaked, unnoticed, to the doors of the jail, left slightly ajar; pressed his back against the outer wall, cold, where the shadows were the darkest, and listened. 

Henry was talking to someone in that jail—at first, Hans thought he might have used it as a spot to get with Klara again, but all the voices were male. 

Did Zizka take other prisoners, other than them? Hans thought everyone was either dead—buried or swinging from that great oak tree by the gorge—or fled. 

“Thank God you’re alive,” he heard Henry’s voice: hushed, uneasy. 

Hans felt an uncomfortable wave of warmth run through his body. 

“Don’t jinx it…” The other voice was strained and rough; the man was clearly wounded. “They can still decide to finish us off.”

“How’s Littlehead?”

“Out of it. Got hit pretty bad, lost a lot blood…” The man cleared his throat. “But his breathing is steadier now, thanks to that lass you sent to us.”

“She’s good.”

“She is,” the man replied, as his tone got darker. “But you know what I’m about to ask.”

Hans furrowed his brows—and then, entirely suddenly, it dawned on him: where he knew that voice from. It was that Prague knight, Von Bergow’s bodyguard. A valuable prisoner, on one hand. On the other…

Another unpleasant wave ran down his sides. The cool evening air did nothing to help.

“You don’t have to ask.”

“You know I do, Henry,” Black Bartosch replied, nearly too quietly for Hans to hear. “How come we’re locked here and you’re not?”

“I was a fool,” Henry’s voice was underlined with a note that made Hans sad. “Von Bergow deceived us. He was never interested in an alliance with our lords.”

Silence fell in the cell; Capon could suddenly hear his own breathing—raised his head to open up his airways more. It was a useful trick, one Henry taught him at Talmberg.

“We all serve someone.”

The man’s tone made even Hans uneasy. 

“You know that this isn’t about you, Bartosch. It’s Von Bergow who-”

“You don’t have to justify yourself to me,” the knight cut him off harshly. 

“I could-”

“Don’t, Henry. Just don’t. I have my honour and I won’t betray it.”

“I see,” Henry said. Even though Hans could tell he tried to keep his tone dry, there was so much strange sadness in that short reply that it made him wince. 

Another moment of silence; loaded and tense and bitter. It was entirely dark outside, at that point, and the wind got colder. 

“I will… I will ask Klara to come check on Hermann again. Or I could check-”

“Ask your Klara,” the man interrupted him again. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“They won’t question my allegiance at his point, just because I’m helping you,” Henry countered.

“That’s not what I mean. You just… You shouldn’t be here. I don’t want you to be here. Go ask your lass.”

“Don’t call her mine,” Henry said suddenly, masking his sadness with misguided anger; a habit he certainly picked up from Hans. 

“Is she not? I saw the way she looked at you, Henry,” Black Bartosch laughed faintly; it was a bitter sort of laughter. “Felt that tension, even as she snapped at you for no reason. Made me feel like a fool.”

“Listen, Bartosch, I just…” Henry clearly fought with himself; his voice wavered. “I wanted you to know that-”

“You should go,” the knight cut him off, again. He tried to keep his tone softer—didn’t want to be cruel. “Please, just go.”

“Aye.”

“And I hope fates will be kind enough to both of us,” Black Bartosch added, “and our paths won’t ever cross again.”

Henry didn’t reply; Hans could only imagine he nodded.

Hearing his steps closer to the door, Capon moved to the side, hiding beyond the corner. He waited until Henry walked away, far, and then disappeared in the shed he was told to sleep in.

Hans exhaled; shook his head to dispel all the unpleasant thoughts creeping in. He was so preoccupied with how this whole fiasco with Von Bergow made him feel that he hadn’t considered how it must have been for Henry. And clearly… It wasn’t easy.

It no longer seemed like a good moment to go to him and ask whether everything was alright between them. It would be selfish. 

Just go back and sleep, Hans thought to himself as he walked through Nebakov slowly. You’ll ask him tomorrow.

He looked up at the sky: there weren’t many stars, clouds still covering most of what he could see. He shivered, slightly, regretting leaving the smithy without his coat; then, even though he knew he shouldn’t, he decided to walk past the shed that Henry slept in. Perhaps on the off chance he could see him or overhear him. Perhaps for no reason. Perhaps hoping something, anything would happen. 

Walking past, he heard hushed voices again. And this time, as he assumed previously, it was Klara.

Of course, he thought to himself, and smiled. He wasn’t surprised—he wasn’t bitter, either. He was the last person in the whole world, after all, to ever chastise Henry for seeking out some honeyed moments with a pretty girl, especially after all they’ve been through. 

He smiled to himself, sly, already imagining how he would tease Henry about it the next day: this time, he decided, he would actually ask for details; greedily satisfy his curiosity. He’d have the whole road to Rattay to pester him about it. 

A devilish idea overcame him, suddenly—later on, he would blame it on getting hit on the head too hard. In the darkness of that night, he sneaked slowly to the very shed the voices came from; positioned himself at an angle that would allow him to peek, just barely, through the window. Golden light of candles spilled out of it, flickering in the wind. 

He would just… Sneak one look. He wouldn’t watch, of course. 

That’d be insane, he thought to himself, and felt the tips of his ears burn hot like fire.

“You’ve let your hair down,” Henry said, sitting on the small bed. “You look beautiful.”

“Come off it,” she shook her head, smiling. “You don’t have to woo me, you know.”

“I’m just being honest,” his voice was soft in a way that made Hans feel strange.

“I’m so, so awfully tired…” Klara said, approaching the bed. “And cold.”

“Come here,” Henry made room next to him, even though there was so little space there. “We have to do something about it.”

“Don’t get too excited, sir knight,” she smiled again, walking up and sitting next to him. “The second I lie my head down, I will sleep the sleep of the de-”

“The just?” Henry reciprocated the smile. 

It was all too soft. Too intimate. The candle gave off such warm light. 

“Something like that,” she replied, resting her head on Henry’s bare shoulder. Hans felt slightly nauseous, suddenly. “But at least I won’t have to worry about any bad dreams, with you here.”

“Won’t even let them come near you,” Henry said, quietly, into her hair. He planted a fleeting kiss at the top of her head. “I’m good at dispelling nightmares, you know?”

“Are you?”

“Aye.”

“And you won’t be… Disappointed?” Klara asked, muffling a yawn with her hand. Her eyes were already closed.

“No, of course not,” Henry said. “I… I also just want to sleep, tonight.”

He lied down, pressed against the wooden wall to make room for Klara—she followed, as well, pressing her body against his and covering them with the patched-up blanket. Henry wrapped his arms around her. 

Hans took a step back, unwillingly, as if in trance. As if some invisible power pushed him away.

“And I just don’t want to be alone,” Henry whispered, even though she already dozed off. He didn’t know it was only Hans who heard him in the night. 

He felt dizzy; swallowed hard, trying to ignore the wave of nausea that hit him nearly as hard as the sadness. 

As Capon walked back to the smithy, shivering in the cold night air, all he could think about was that he got so lost in his own misery and solitude that he did not notice Henry’s. 

How? What sort of friend was he, then? 

Useless. Again. 

And all the time—always.

Hans rarely dreamed—or rather, never seemed to remember any dreams he might have had. Nightmares, then, were an even rarer occurrence: the few that he had throughout the last couple of years imprinting into his memory with twofold strength. 

He didn’t know what it was: the tiredness, or perhaps the fact that he got hit on the head, or perhaps just bad luck. Maybe some combination of all of those, with the added wrath of God aimed at him for whatever reason… All in all, that night, curled up on that small bed in the smithy seeking any sort of warmth and comfort, Hans had a nightmare. 

A vile one, too. He didn’t know what would be worse: if it was God sending him that vision or his own mind coming up with it. Both were cruel. 

They were standing on the wooden walkway over the courtyard, leaning against the balustrade—it could have been Nebakov, but it could have been Trosky, too, or Pirkstein. It was all blurry and irrelevant; even in the dream, he was cold. 

No matter what he was saying to Henry, Henry wouldn’t look at him. Looked bored and disinterested—annoyed, even, at the sheer fact that Hans was talking. The angrier Henry got, the more Hans tried to patch things up: joke, or say something nice, or reach out to touch his shoulder. And Henry would just step to the side, just barely out of reach. Not look at him. The distance between them grew—Hans felt as if there was a great pane of glass between them, warping everything, muffling his words. 

Don’t pretend you care, Henry said. It makes being in your service even worse.

He wanted to reach out: grab Henry’s hand, pull him closer, explain—apologise, beg him to stay. 

Stay , Hans begged.

Is that an order, my lord? Henry countered, and his voice was cold. 

They weren’t on a wooden walkway anymore—the background changed, at some point, in a swirl of colours and shadows—but instead, they were in a cell again. The walls were wet and they kept closing in. 

I don’t have a choice, Henry said. Whatever you tell me, I have to do. I can’t even tell you no. 

That’s not true, Hans said; or rather, wanted to say. Even in the dream, the words didn’t come out. 

You could do anything to me, Henry’s voice was dripping with hatred, and I would have to pretend to enjoy it. My lord. 

Hans could only shake his head, feverishly; couldn’t even say anything. 

All I want is to be free of you. But you’ll never let me go, will you? 

Hans felt both overwhelming sadness and sudden anger well up in him—who was he, to speak to him like that? If Henry didn’t want him then to hell with it all, to hell with him! He wouldn’t beg. Fuck him. 

Please don’t leave me, he said instead, against his will. 

And Henry laughed at him. 

Dawn was just about to break when Hans woke up, sweaty and shivering. He shook his head, trying to dispel the remnants of the nightmare—Henry’s cruel laughter and distant gaze—and quickly got out of bed. Father Godwin was still asleep, and so was most of Nebakov. 

Hans dressed—doing his best to ignore Henry’s armour lying by his bed—and left the smithy shed in a hurry; climbed the stairs to the wall, hoping to just watch the sun rise and forget that stupid dream before others woke up, before they had to get into the saddle and ride out, back to Rattay. 

What if Henry preferred to stay somewhere here, instead of going back? With Klara, or…

Then, Hans spotted some movement at the line of trees: red waffenrocks and the glint of weapons. Looked to the side, quickly, to catch the attention of one of Zizka’s men patrolling the grounds and show him.

Soon, the whole of Nebakov was awake, putting on armour in a great, worried rush: Godwin and Zizka joined Hans on the wall quickly, looking out at Von Bergow’s forces gathering in front of the fortress. 

“Where’s Henry?” Father Godwin asked.

Hans only shrugged. 

Who am I, he thought bitterly, his keeper?

He wasn’t sure whether it was the sudden stress of having to face Von Bergow instead of managing to ride out, in time, to Rattay—or the mace to the head, or maybe the sadness in Henry’s voice as he spoke to the Prague knight, or maybe the words he whispered into Klara’s hair, or maybe that rotten, cruel dream—but suddenly Hans was glad Henry was nowhere to be found. 

And then, of course, the second he thought that, Henry ran up the stairs and found them.

“What the hell is going on?” He asked, still fastening the buckles of his armour. 

“A bit of a rude awakening,” Father Godwin said. 

“Who are they? Where the fuck did they come from?”

“By the red crest with the tower, I’d say it’s the Prague militia,” Hans said, and looked at Henry fleetingly.

In that one quick look, even though their eyes barely even met, Hans felt all of his bitterness melt like snow in the sun. He suddenly felt stupid. None of this was Henry’s fault—least of all the fucking nightmare. 

He wanted to say something—even though Godwin and Zizka stood between them, and he’d have to mind his words and tone—but then he saw that strange darkness pass through Henry’s face again. When he looked down, at the line of the trees, he understood why. Again.

This wretched cunt, Hans thought to himself, feeling his blood boil.

They rode in, horses in caparisons bearing Von Bergow’s colours, banner held by members of his retinue: and next to Sir Otto, smiling smugly, Istvan Toth. And his dog Erik, and old Nebak—and Aulitz.

Hans shot a quick glimpse at Henry, again: saw his hands clench on the hilt of his longsword.

“Good morning, Captain!” Toth’s grating, nasal voice rang out in the valley. “Please forgive my abrupt departure without saying goodbye yesterday!” He laughed. 

“What do you want?” Zizka yelled back from the wall. 

“Lord Nebak here would like his castle back,” Toth gestured at the old lord by his side. “My liege Sir Otto wants your head…” Even though he was far away, Hans could see the smirk on Toth’s lips. He knew what it meant. “And I…” he continued, urging his horse to take a small step forward. “I have an account to settle with a certain bastard of Radzig’s!”

He looked at Henry: he could feel him tense up even though they weren’t touching. Once again, he felt something strange grip his heart—he’d give anything to take that rage and bitterness away, all that hurt plaguing Henry so unfairly. He’d give anything to kill Istvan; even at the cost of getting Von Bergow or Aulitz. All he wanted to do was just rip Toth’s heart out there and then.  

“Lord Bergow!” Zizka shouted. “Since when did the chamberlain of our land ally himself with such filth?”

“Ha! Ever since Jobst and Wenceslas started allying with filth like you, Zizka!” Von Bergow replied, mocking tone in his voice. “Sir Istvan Toth is a master of your craft! He did a good job in Sasau, too, and would succeed here as well, if not for this Hanush’s pair of bufoons!”

“That smug little fucker was in his service the whole time,” Hans spat out, shaking his head. 

“The executioner awaits you, Captain!” Aulitz yelled out. “But if you’re sensible, we’ll spare your companions!”

Hans was looking at Toth, observing him closely like a goshawk; he noticed the face he made at the very idea of promising to spare anyone. Henry, most of all. Himself, probably, too. 

“Surrender!”

Perhaps they should? It would save their skin. 

“Is there any way to sneak out of here..?” Father Godwin asked, hushed.

It took a moment for Zizka to reply; shake his head.

“Even if there were, we wouldn’t get far.”

“No,” Henry cut them off. “I’m never going to run from that fucker again!”

Hans looked at him—caught his gaze for a heartbeat and not more—and decided no other rational solution mattered, not at all. He nodded.

He leaned against the stone wall.

“Lord Von Bergow, Sir Markvart, Lord Nebak and you… You treacherous shit!” Hans yelled. “Kiss! Our! Arses!”

He looked back at Henry, sneakily, for a fleeting second—and the whole world could go fuck itself, all consequences be damned: because Henry smiled. 

Nothing else mattered. 

Godwin and Zizka were putting on the last of their armour, busy discussing what was coming next with the captain’s second in command. Henry stood in the same spot, still, looking out onto the grounds in front of the fortress: the Praguers were preparing to attack, knowing they had the upper hand. 

Hans walked up to him, knowing that it might be the last moment they would get to talk before all hell breaks loose. 

“Henry,” he said, trying to sound light-hearted. “Seems we won’t be going back to Rattay just yet, eh?”

“Aye, Sir Hans,” Henry replied, absent-mindedly. 

“How’s your, uh,” Capon cleared his throat. It all felt so stupid. “How’s your shoulder?”

That made Henry actually shake off whatever stupor was holding him in its power; he looked at Hans and smiled, faintly. 

“It’s great. Again, I don’t know how to thank you. It might make the difference between life and death, today.”

“That’s, I-” Hans felt his heart drop. “We’ll be alright.”

“Of course.”

“I’m glad it helped, though, really. You left in such a hurry that I-”

That I started panicking? That I had a nightmare you hated me? Hans berated himself. Don’t say these things out loud, you pathetic fool. 

“I’m sorry,” Henry said, simply. Took a step closer to him—reached out to touch Hans’ shoulder, the sudden weight of his armoured hand sobering him up. “If I didn’t leave immediately I feared I would…”

Silence fell for a moment—Hans observed, feeling his heart amp up in tempo, as Henry struggled to find the right words. 

“I was so tired I’d just fall asleep right then and there! You’d have to haul me to bed,” He said, at last, grinning. “And a nobleman doesn’t haul, eh?”

Hans laughed: one, he was grateful Henry always knew how to break the tension between them. Two, a budding, shy hope filled his chest as he understood that whatever the reason was behind Henry leaving in such a hurry, it wasn’t anything bad. Even more: it was something that made Henry now blush slightly, in a way he did when he was flustered and didn’t know what to say or do. 

“I hate that we have to fight again.”

“Luck favours us, Henry,” he smiled, hoping to put him at ease. “We’ll come out of this unscathed, you’ll see. And we’ll kill that bastard Toth, too.”

“I’d just…” Henry exhaled, slowly. “I’d give anything to be back in Rattay, you know?”

“I do,” Hans replied, even though he didn’t really know—he wanted to ask a thousand questions. 

Why? What is the reason? Do you tire of me? Do you want to see that sweetheart of yours? Are you just weary of fighting? 

“No battles and none of this in-fighting and everything, no Von Bergow and Toth,” Henry shook his head, adjusting the sword by his belt. “Just the two of us, Sir Hans, and hunting hares somewhere by Neuhof.”

Hans felt himself smile—which, with the armed forces behind him preparing to  attack them, must have made him look like an absolute idiot. He didn’t care. 

“We’ll be back there sooner than you think!” He said, looking at Henry. “And you won’t be able to weasel your way out of going hunting with me, now that you’ve said it out loud!”

“Wouldn’t dare to even try,” Henry grinned.

“So, no getting shot or hit too hard today, understood?”

“Aye!”

“Best of luck, Henry,” Hans said, stopping himself from saying more.

“Good luck, Sir Hans,” Henry said, and his voice was unbearably soft. “God watch over you.”

Before any of them could say anything else, an avalanche of Prague arrows fell on their heads, forcing them to duck and get their weapons ready.

He could barely catch his breath in the musty air of the tower, smelling like dust and straw and sweat. As the men were barricading them in, all he could focus on was Henry: kept looking at him to make sure all that blood covering him wasn’t his. 

And Henry looked at him, too; as Zizka was feverishly looking out, preparing for the worst, Henry walked up, quietly.

“Are you hurt, Sir Hans?” He asked, worry in his bright eyes.

“No,” Hans shook his head, trying not to get choked out by the sudden wave of gratitude sweeping over him. Throughout all the years since he was born, no one asked him whether he was alright half as many times as Henry had in the short weeks they knew each other.

No one cared about him as deeply as Henry did. “You?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Good.”

“Listen,” Henry said, suddenly, lowering his voice and looking at Godwin and Zizka to make sure they weren’t listening. “Sir Hans, if anything happens today, I need you to know-”

“We’ll be alright,” Hans interrupted him, feeling his voice about to break. 

“I need you to know,” Henry inhaled, sharply, clenched his jaw. “I-”

“Fall back! Everyone away from the tower!” Rang out from down below. Henry froze.

Hans shook his head to pull himself out of the momentary stupor that overcame him.

“What the fuck is that?” He asked, walking up to the small opening in the wooden wall. 

“Get ready!”

God. 

Father Godwin was already praying—perhaps that was the only thing left for them to do.

God, fuck.

“Prime!”

He looked back at Henry; he only had a fleeting second to catch his gaze. His eyes, wide in worry.

“Take cover!”

Why?! Why?

“Everyone away from the wall!” Zizka’s voice was rough.

“Fire!” Echoed, damningly, throughout Nebakov. 

In the horrid, head-splitting thunder of the blast, and the overwhelming, terrifying darkness that it brought—despite the pain and fear and blood—all Hans could think about was Henry. Even as he felt his own body crushed, all he regretted was that he could not turn around to look at Henry; didn’t know where he was, and whether he was alright. Even as he felt he himself could no longer breathe, all he could think about-

He couldn't move.

Henry wasn’t right next to him—everything was dark. Everything smelled like dust and blood and stone. 

He couldn’t move. 

Where’s Henry?!

He’s dead, his own voice echoed through his head, mockery mixed with panic. He’s dead and it’s your fucking fault. 

No, no, no.

Yes, he is, echoed out in his mind. You’ll be dead, too. 

Fuck, he couldn’t move. He couldn’t see. He felt his heart beat so fast his head started thrumming with the force of it; his eyes felt as if they were about to burst. He couldn’t move: it was the Trosky cell again, crushing him, alone, abandoned, scared. It was the gallows, again, rough noose around his neck. It was the snowy hill beyond Neuhof, too, and it was the locked room at the Upper Castle, and it was everything combined, scary and painful and lonesome.

Alone, worst of all. Like his whole life. 

He couldn’t feel his legs. If Henry was dead then God should take him, too.

There was no point, otherwise. No point. 

Fuck, he couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. 

Someone moved, somewhere to his side. Sudden brightness blinded him—the ringing in his ears felt like it was scrambling up his brain. He couldn’t  feel his fucking legs. 

“I’m-” A shaky, wavering cry escaped his lips. “I’m buried! I’m buried here!”

A desperate plea, his voice breaking—his heart hardly able not to follow. 

“Help me!” He yelled, feeling terror overcome him. “Someone! Anyone!”

No, not anyone. God have mercy. Not anyone! There was only one person he gave a shit about, in that moment on the verge of death—only one. Only one who could save him; only one who would ever be willing to save him, too.

“I’m fucking stuck!” Hans shrieked, dust and blood in his mouth. 

He could feel the weight on his back, crushing him and pressing him into the floor. He could no longer breathe—he couldn’t think of anything else but panic and death and pain, and the fact that he couldn’t see anything and anyone. He couldn’t move, good God, he couldn’t move. Was Henry dead?

God, was he dead?

It’s all my fault, he thought.

I’m so, so scared.

“Henry, for the love of God!” He felt himself cry out, like a doomed and hopeless prayer; a final, terrified confession. 

Henry. If he was to die—if he was to fucking perish at that stupid fortress, crushed and defeated— he wanted his name to be the last thing he utters. 

“Henry-” he whispered with the final ounce of his strength, blood on his tongue—and then everything went dark. 

Chapter Text

If, through blind desire that destroys the heart,

I do not deceive myself counting the hours,

now, while I speak these words, the time nears

that was promised to pity and myself.

What shade is so cruel as to blight the crop

which was so near to a lovely harvest?

And what wild beast is roaring in my fold?

What wall is set between the hand and grain?

Ah, I do not know: but I see only too well

that in joyous hope love led me on

only to make my life more sorrowful.

And now I remember words that I have read:

before the day of our final parting

we should not call any man blessed.

Sonnet 56: Se col cieco desir che ‘l cor distrugge. “Il Canzoniere,” Petrarch. 

As if through heavy, choking fog, Hans registered the armoured hands of Von Bergow’s men digging him out from beneath the rubble; his head was swaying on his shoulders and there was a ringing in his ears so overwhelming he couldn’t even focus. He tried to look to the side, with the final bits of his strength—searching, desperately, for that one sight, that one pair of eyes to meet his. But he couldn’t spot him anywhere. 

He thought, for a moment, that if he were to see Henry laying there, dead, he would try to muster strength enough to reach for the dagger hanging from the belt of the guard holding him. If he did it fast enough, he hoped they would react reflexively, too—drive him through with their steel without a second thought. 

He kept looking around… At some point, turning his head to the left as Von Bergow’s men hauled him harshly toward the half-ruined stairs, he forgot what he was looking for. The ringing was overwhelming. Then he remembered, suddenly, and it felt like waking up from some horrid nightmare; a wave of horrible, sticky sweat ran down his back, mixed with guilt and fear. His spine hurt, and his shoulder blades, and he felt as if the flesh right at his kidneys was crushed to gore. But it didn’t matter, all that pain. Only one thing mattered.

He was so certain he would die under that rubble. It felt so strange that he didn’t. 

“Henry,” he whispered, so quietly that even the men holding him didn’t hear it. His throat was dry and twisted with pain; he could taste blood and dust on his tongue.

He could barely stand upright—if the soldiers let him go, suddenly, he would just collapse to the ground. They hauled him towards a wagon, after making sure his hands were tied; Hans could only register the sudden softness of grass beneath his feet and the smell of rain that wind brought, sneaking through the heavy scent of gunpowder in the air. 

It was so hard to focus: but a commotion somewhere to his side made him try and raise his head enough to look at it.

“I said hold him down!” One of the soldiers screamed; three of them were struggling to overpower one man, trying to hold his arms and make him stop moving enough to bind him. 

“Take his fucking armour off!”

The soldiers were, indeed, trying to simultaneously pacify the raging man and take his armour off: they managed to get rid of his gloves and armoured sleeves and the plate legs, and another soldier joined them, rushing to unbuckle the cuirass. 

“Fuck!” One of the soldiers screamed as he received a strong hook straight to his face; a sudden splash of blood poured out of his nose as he scrambled to move away and stop the bleeding. 

“Just cut his fucking throat and be done with it!”

“We’re supposed to take him alive,” the other soldier coughed out, struggling to hold down the arm that just nearly knocked out his captain. “Von Berg- Kurva! Uh, fuck… Von Bergow’s orders!”

Hans felt his head sway; the skies above, clouded, swirled rapidly. It was getting impossible to even keep his eyes open. 

“Hans! Hans!” The voice was rough, hardly human. The soldiers tried to silence him as they ripped the last of his armour off. “Let him go! You fucking-”

The captain, wiping the outpouring of blood from his face, managed to at last pacify Henry with a well-aimed kick of an armoured foot to the back of his bare legs. Henry fell to his knees, suddenly and abruptly, screaming out in pain.  His head dropped to his chest for a brief second—then, he raised it again, fury in his bright eyes. 

“Let him go!” The shout that came out of Henry’s throat was guttural and rough; he struggled against the men holding him again.

Hans turned his head, slowly and with tremendous effort: he wanted to say something but words refused to form. He opened his mouth—couldn’t hold himself standing upright—and before he could even comprehend what was happening, the guards pushed him onto a  wagon. His back hit the wood of the side and he felt everything shake and sway again. 

The captain silenced Henry with a backhand hit to the temple; the steel of his glove cut through the skin on Henry’s brow right away. He hissed in pain—and then stopped struggling the second he realised they planned to haul him onto the same wagon Hans was already on. 

All his armour was off, his weapons taken and his hands bound forcefully in front of him; they threw him onto the wagon, and Father Godwin and Zizka were soon thrown in after him. 

Hans couldn’t open his eyes, even though he really wanted to. His lower back hurt to a degree that made him nauseous and scared. 

There were voices all around him, saying something—fighting, shouting, snapping at each other—but he couldn’t even focus enough to tell the people apart. Pain was making him dizzy; it was difficult to breathe.

Henry said something, the tone and warmth of his voice slowly finding its way into Hans’ exhausted mind; still, it was a muddled echo. He was so scared—he still wasn’t sure he didn’t die back at that fortress, beneath its heavy stones. 

Perhaps he had. Perhaps he died. Perhaps, if he was to turn his head back now, to look at Nebakov, he would see the yellow of his crest beneath the rubble, crushed and gored. Perhaps he was dead; died young and unfairly and alone and-

The feverish thoughts in his head came to a sudden soft stop as he felt the pressure of Henry’s ankle pressed against his. Sneakily, so that neither the soldiers nor Godwin or Zizka noticed.

He couldn’t muster strength enough to open his eyes and look at Henry—but he knew it was him, sitting across in that wagon, bloodied and exhausted, and yet, God, for some reason focusing on making sure Hans knew he wasn’t alone. 

I don’t deserve this, Hans thought, and it echoed in his mind in a thousand ripples. I don’t deserve him. 

All he could think about was that he got them into this mess. Or did he? He did. 

Whose fault was it? 

It had to be his fault. He didn’t see through Von Bergow at all, just as he didn’t see through Zizka when he was posing as Nebak. He was so happy and full of himself each time things went alright that he didn’t even notice that he backed himself into a hopeless pile of shit—and Henry with him. If Henry stayed back in Rattay, he would have been alright. 

He kept veering in and out of awareness; it could have been an hour and it could have been five, Hans didn’t know—but the wagon stopped, suddenly, and he felt the rough hands of the soldiers grab him again, and drag him out and onto the grass.

Even if Von Bergow still found it in himself to demand a ransom for him—and if Hanush agreed to pay it, or even had the gold for it—with that snake Istvan at his side, there was no way Henry would be a part of that deal. Hans would beg. Maybe that would help. He’d beg Sir Otto… But would he have to beg his uncle, too? They needed Henry, after all, they did: Hanush would see it. Radzig wouldn’t just give up on his son either, would he? He had no plans to legitimise him, that was true, but that didn't mean he’d just leave Henry behind. Unless it did. Hans didn’t know. 

But it was a matter of time, too. They didn’t have much of it—Henry had the least, truth be told, just because he had the shit luck of not having been born a noble. And the shit luck of falling into all of this. Shit luck of meeting Hans on his path. 

Suddenly Hans realised he was the only one they hauled off the wagon. He wanted to turn around to look at Henry—call out—but everything shook and swirled again. His spine burned as if someone poured hot lead down his back. 

“Well,” Von Bergow’s voice boomed somewhere around him. “We part ways here, Istvan. I need someone to keep watch on Trosky while I’m with the king.”

Hans tried to open his eyes but they stung too much: the dust of Nebakov rubble heavy underneath his eyelids. 

“Of course,” Toth replied, and Hans felt something recoil deep within his gut at that sound alone. 

“Take the captives,” Von Bergow added. “Get what you can out of them. We need to know what Jobst and the Leipa lords are plotting.”

“With the greatest pleasure, Sir,” the man replied, drawing out the syllables in unbridled, cruel confidence. 

Hans’ heart nearly stopped. They wouldn’t separate them, would they?

He didn’t land Henry straight into that snake’s hands, did he?

God have mercy. 

His head was spinning. 

“Don’t spare them,” Von Bergow’s tone was relentless. “And when they sing, send me a message with what you’ve found out.”

“Of course,” the smirk was audible in Toth’s voice; Hans could only imagine the smile warping his features. 

“But the young Lord of Pirkstein will be coming along with me,” Von Bergow added suddenly, and Capon felt the soldiers pull his arms with more force towards a different direction. “He’s too valuable a commodity. He’ll come in handy as a hostage if Hanush tries any tricks.”

The air smelled like rain again, and mud. The sound of hooves rattled Hans as Von Bergow rushed his steed past him; as the soldiers hauled him aside, he heard another horse pass him. Slowly. No rush. 

“Worry not,” a whisper snaked into his ear, dripping with cloying venom, as Istvan leaned down from the saddle, smiling. “I’ll take such good care of your little Skalitz dog, you won’t even recognise him once I’m done.”

Whatever happened after that, Hans wasn’t sure: it was all a blur of pain, nausea, and the faraway jarring cry of panicked jays defending their nest somewhere in the forest. 

But the jays fell silent, soon, defeated—and so did Hans. 

The first night was one, constant nightmare. 

It was already dark when they arrived at Maleshov: a storm was brewing. Von Bergow’s men were rough but still treated him decently, given he was a noble hostage. Sir Otto himself did not speak to him—knew, Hans suspected, that he wouldn’t be able to have much of a coherent conversation—and retired to his chambers right after instructing his servants to lock him up. He did, however, instruct them to attend to Hans as well: look him over, check him for injuries, and ensure he was afforded a respectable level of comfort in his captivity.

The guards left them alone in the room: Capon and two servants who helped him undress and wash off most of the blood. One of them, the younger one, did a considerably worse job of hiding his reaction to the state of Hans’ back once they unpeeled his shirt; he recovered, quickly but awkwardly. His hands were shaking, just a little bit.

“It’s… This-” The younger servant cleared his throat. “Sir Otto would like you to be as comfortable as possible, of course. Let me bring you something for the pain.”

“I don’t need…” Hans started and wavered; couldn’t even finish the sentence. The pain was unbearable, that much was true.

“We don’t have much but we will send someone to the apothecary tomorrow. There’s not much else that can be done tonight,” the second servant said. “We can clean the two cuts and bandage them up, but most of it is bruising, and, sir, it is severe. There might be some damage that we just can’t see.”

“Maybe we could send for-”

“Quiet,” the older servant cut the other off. “Go downstairs and bring bandages and water, and some spirits.”

Half those spirits they used to clean his back—the other they were merciful to let him drink. Then, they guided him to bed; said some things about bringing him food the next morning and dressing him and something about Von Bergow, but Hans wasn’t listening. 

The room was so dark—the one candle they gave him was not enough to dispel any of the darkness. It didn’t smell like blood and dust but was it that much different? Could he have any certainty that he wasn’t, still, underneath that rubble? 

“Sir, I would… Advise you to sleep on your stomach, to give your back a chance to heal,” the servant said as Hans crawled into the small bed slowly. 

And so Hans did: once the servants left, he hid his face in the pillow and prayed for sleep. God half-listened.

The night was one long nightmare; on his stomach, hurting, veering in and out of consciousness, he became stuck between dreaming of being buried under the stones of Nebakov and waking up to feel his crushed back ache as if he was still there. The storm that broke over the forest kept tearing through the skies—the sound of it sisterly to the Finger of God.

Both the pain and the fear were unbearable—he wanted to cry but didn’t have strength enough for it; he was terrified it would make everything hurt more, too. Breathing hurt, after all; he could only imagine sobbing would be worse. 

It was so dark; everything was foreign. Everything smelled strange and off; he suddenly felt like a child again. He wanted to get up to piss but wasn’t able to; didn’t have enough strength to lift himself off the bed. 

Hans didn’t know what was worse: his captivity, his solitude, his pain, or the absolute shit he got Henry in. Feeling sticky, horrid fear crawl up his spine, he veered into sleep again: his last waking thought being that he landed Henry right into Istvan’s hands. Right into torture, again—and then, most likely, death. 

There was no scenario in which things would be alright again. Even if neither Zizka nor Henry gave any of their plans up, even if Hanush paid the ransom and got him out, even if Henry survived the torture and somehow luck smiled on them and the whole civil war thing turned in their favour… Henry would never look at him the same again. He’d be too hurt—all Hans’ fault—and he wouldn’t… God, he was so scared of what was happening to Henry while he just lay there in this bed, underneath clean and embroidered covers, expensive spirits on his tongue, having fucking servants attend to his needs while Henry, fuck, Henry-

“Henry,” he heard himself say as he bolted awake again, his head spinning. He lifted himself slightly, struggling through the waves of pain, just to make sure he could move; just to make sure he wasn’t pinned down. 

If it was anyone else tasked with getting information out of them, maybe Henry would spill, end up saving himself—Hans wouldn’t blame him, no one would. It wouldn’t even be that catastrophic for the cause. But it was Toth. 

Hans felt his throat tighten; his chest heaved with a sob he tried his best to stop. Henry would not give Toth the satisfaction; any of it. He would rather die. 

He would. 

He will, Hans thought, face pressed into the pillow. Henry will die, no?

Tortured and dead and it was all for nothing, and it was all Hans’ fault. If he himself had died at Nebakov, at least it would… It would… 

It rained and rained, and lighting cut through the darkness.

Exhaustion and pain caught up to him again and he fell asleep despite himself; once again, he dreamed of being trapped beneath the rubble.

Somewhere, in that dream, muffled by layers upon layers of stone on his back: the echo of Henry, screaming. 

The servants woke him early, only moments after dawn; at first, he couldn't tell whether their voices by the door were real or still a part of his tortured half-dreams and half-visions that tormented him throughout the whole night. The younger servant quickly took to tidying the chamber while the older served him some food—and asked whether the young lord slept at all.

“Barely,” Hans replied, moving the plate away from himself. “But thank you,” he added, scolding himself in his thoughts immediately.

It's not their fault, he thought. Besides, soon they might be the only ones who'll even speak to you. 

If you want to stay sane, you can't make the servants your enemies right away.

“Sir, today, Sir Otto will want to speak with you,” the older servant added, checking whether the other one made the bed correctly. “After that, you'll be escorted back here.”

Hans just nodded. If Von Bergow wanted to learn anything, he wouldn't have much luck.

“But you should cheer up,” the younger chimed in, suddenly, much to the other one's disapproval. “You'll have company!”

“Company?” Capon asked, surprising himself with how foreign and rough his voice sounded.

“Aye, a French baron, a very cheerful and clever fellah! He's been Sir Otto's…”

Silence fell, suddenly, as the servant understood the rather uncomfortable corner he backed himself into.

“Guest,” the older servant finished, dryly. “For quite some time now.”

“He was in the other chamber so far but now that there's two of ye, no point in having guards by two doors, no?” The younger one babbled on, apparently entirely oblivious to the gravity of the subject. Once again, Hans did not say anything.

“How is your back?” The older servant asked.

“I wouldn’t say no to some more spirits tonight,” Hans replied. Or a priest to administer last rites, he thought. Like at Trosky . 

Just prepare me to die. 

“Of course,” the man replied, politely nodding his head. “Guards will pick you up in a moment, and take you to Sir Otto’s chambers,” he added. Then, he gestured at the younger one—and they left, locking the door behind them. 

No point, Hans thought. No point to any of this, if he is gone. 

Von Bergow’s face did not betray anything besides the clearly thought-through, intentional noble expression of annoyance.

“So, nothing, Lord Capon?” He asked, turning the rich ring on his index finger. 

“The only thing I can tell you is what you already know. I was not made privy to any deeper, larger plans, neither of my uncle or that of Jobst, or anyone else.”

“If that’s so,” the lord of Trosky shrugged. “I have no intention of torturing anything out of you.”

“Would you like me to be grateful for that?”

“Somewhat, yes,” Von Bergow eyed him carefully, deliberating on his next words. “Your page won’t have such a kindness extended to him. Especially with Toth at the helm.”

Hans gritted his teeth. 

“Neither won’t Zizka,” he continued, “but I don’t expect you to care about him to the same extent. Now, tell me, after that page of yours saved you from the gallows… Do you not think you owe him at least an attempt at saving his life in return?”

A slow, horrid wave of shame and fear rippled through Capon, rattling him more than the pain emanating from his crushed back. 

“There’s nothing I can tell you that you don’t already know,” he repeated, clenching his fist and digging his fingers painfully into his skin. “Henry doesn’t know either.”

“We’ll see,” Von Bergow added. “That Hungarian devil can be incredibly persuasive, you know? And stubborn as a mule.”

Hans did not reply.

“He’s like a mule in a number of ways,” Von Bergow chuckled to himself, bitterly. “Still, if there is even a crumb of truth to be dug out… He’ll dig it out.”

“I’m sure.”

“And it’s your own servant who’ll bleed for it,” The lord’s voice was bitter and nonchalant. “Die for it, most likely.”

Hans felt his heart sink—a cold, sticky feeling coming over him in waves.

“He doesn’t know anything,” Hans said, “and if you’re looking to satisfy some need for blood, you’ve got me.”

“I have no need for blood,” Von Bergow said, his tone serious and low. “Toth, on the other hand… You’re young.” He shifted in his ornamental seat and gestured at the guards standing by the door. “You might not realise it yet. But sometimes, there are people in your service that you cannot just pay in coin.”

Hans looked at him, and at the guards, and back at Von Bergow.

“Some, like Toth, if you desire their loyalty, you have to pay in blood.”

Hans truly was proud of himself: for the sheer fact he kept standing and his legs did not give out. He’d much rather bear any torture in the world himself than think, even for a second, about any suffering that Henry had to go through. 

Most likely now. You’re standing here, echoed in his mind, and he’s out there, alone, screaming out in pain.

“And is it a Christian way?! A noble way?” Hans asked, desperately, as the guards grabbed his arms. 

Do you think he screams out your name?

“War is a nasty thing,” Sir Otto echoed. “It is a noble and Christian pursuit to want it to end. Which is my goal, and King Sigismund’s.”

You’ve dreamt about him screaming it out, haven’t you? His body beneath yours, rough and welcoming and yours to take?

Hans shook his head to dispel these thoughts; he couldn’t comprehend why his own mind was being cruel to him.

“What do you want,” Capon said, suddenly, as the soldiers pulled him away. “To release Henry?”

“It is out of my hands,” the man shook his head. “And even if I could have him released…”

“You wouldn’t?”

Von Bergow simply nodded.

“This is bigger than you and I,” he said, before the door of his chamber closed with a loud thud right in front of Capon’s face. “Be glad you’re of noble blood.”

The guards were rough as they pulled him away. 

Well, he’s screaming your name now...

Are you glad?

The second night was filled with nightmares, too—ones that refused to be dispelled by his new companion in captivity, Brabant, and then, even by dawn. They swallowed him whole, like a dark, murky pit of mud: inescapable, thick, horrid. 

In the first nightmare, they were back at that wooden walkway, Henry and him. Once again, Henry was not listening to the word Hans was saying: he kept getting more and more annoyed, distant, unpleasant. The air was dense with a grating, reverberating noise, which amped up with every passing second.

The more Hans tried to reach out, the more the spiky, tense space between them grew; it felt like they were total strangers, suddenly, or even enemies. The noise thrummed against his eardrums. Henry wouldn't even as much as look at him. Again. 

He couldn’t take it, it was all too much; he shouted out, even though it came out muffled and weak: Henry, for the love of God, look at me!

And Henry did, turning his face slowly towards him. 

Hans woke up, screaming: once he saw there were two bloody, burnt out gaping holes where Henry’s eyes should be. 

This is what he did to me, Henry’s voice rang out in his head on the verge between dream and the waking world, and all you do is whine?

“Mon Dieu, Chapon!” Brabant was kneeling by his bed in the total darkness of the night. “Are you alright? What sort of cauchemar is plaguing you? Or is it pain?”

Hans just tried to control his breathing; he felt as if he was beneath the rubble again. 

“If it’s pain, let me get the guards, have them bring some wine to soothe you…”

“No, no,” Hans replied, his voice husky and pained. “It was just a dream. Just a, uh, nightmare, as you’ve said.”

This is so embarrassing. You’re so weak. 

“Mon ami,” Brabant shook his head, “êtes-vous sûr? Je pourrais, how you say-”

“I’m alright,” he cut Vauquelin off. “I just want to go back to sleep.”

“Of course… Mais-”

“Please,” Hans managed to mutter, pulling away from the man and turning onto his other side in the bed, facing the wall like an upset child. “Let’s just sleep.”

Vauquelin said something more—to himself rather than Capon—and got back into his bed on the other end of the chamber. 

Dawn would break soon: the birds beyond their locked windows and thick wooden shutters already trilling loudly; Hans tried his best to focus on their song and not the horrible, sticky feeling the nightmare left clinging to his skin like sweat.

The second he fell asleep, another barrage of dreams assaulted him, cruel and relentless; it had to be a punishment from God, Hans believed, or otherwise it simply did not make sense. Why would he dream of all these things—the worst things—all these horrible and lonesome and pathetic scenarios? 

Henry’s already dead, echoed out in his mind in a voice painfully similar to his own yet worse, somehow. Uglier. He’s dead, and your damnation for that sin starts now.

You asked this question yourself: Will God not condemn me for ruining the life of a good man?

Well, there you go, Capon, there you go.

He’s condemning you right now. 

An inhale in and an exhale out: Hans felt his body thrum with tension, bordering somewhere between unbearable pressure and unreasonable pleasure. He looked down at Henry as he straddled his hips, stopping himself from grinding brazenly against him: and Henry looked up, flushed and pupils blown, and mouth half-open in deep, ragged breaths. 

Please, Henry breathed out, raspy. Hans, please.

We can’t rush it, can we? Hans asked, contrarian and smug. He moved his hips, slightly, feeling himself get hard against Henry. Don’t be impatient, blacksmith’s boy. 

No, I mean- Another ragged breath. Henry’s muscles beneath his thighs twitched. Please, please.

Hans felt a stinging, uncomfortable wave ripple through him. He looked at Henry again: his face was contorted in pain.

Please, it hurts, Henry cried out—and when Hans looked down at him again, there was blood everywhere. Henry’s body was marked in red: wounds upon wounds, blooming right in front of Capon’s eyes, from tongs and hammers and daggers. 

Just make it stop, please, please, Henry’s voice rang out in his head. 

Hans, please.

He woke up, abruptly and painfully—gasping for air. As he struggled to rise from the bed, he realised Brabant was looking at him, again, worried. 

Hans didn’t say anything; his ears burned with shame. 

“It is light already,” Vauquelin said, sitting up in his bed. “And you must find something to occupy your mind, my friend.”

“I don’t-” Hans started and wavered. His heart was still beating uncomfortably fast. 

“Get up, tout de suite, mon ami! I have an idea!”

“I don’t think… There really isn’t a point.”

“Bah, mais there is! Vous verrez!”

Brabant got up, quickly and with enthusiasm; he walked up to the chest where he had put his things since the guards brought him downstairs to share a chamber with Hans. He started rummaging through it—soon, he pulled out a book.

“A-ha!”

Hans eyed him cautiously, with considerable doubt. 

“You can read, of course, yes? And Italian?”

“Italian?” Hans asked, sitting up as well. He scratched his neck. 

“Yes! Pétrarque, this is, and all in Italian! But such a worthy read, Chapon, such a worthy read!”

“My Italian is…” Hans cleared his throat. Surprisingly, even that insipid conversation worked well as a distraction; his heartbeat settled. “Rusty, I’d say.”

“But your French is good!” Brabant smiled, gesturing with the book. “So, I will be able to help you, should the need arise! I will translate!”

“I read Petrarch in the past, but…” Hans kept scratching his neck, red marks blooming across his skin already; it must have been the covers or the bed giving him some sort of itch. “In Latin, I’m certain.”

“Ouais, well, this… This work is in Italian, you shall see,” Brabant threw the book in his direction; it landed on the bed with a soft thud. “Nothing works better to distract a man from his misery than either a military treaty or love poetry!”

“Love poetry, Vauquelin? I don’t think-”

“Do not think, my friend! Just enjoy! Chansonnier , it’s a beautiful work… Go on! You will cheer up immediately, or my name isn’t Vauquelin Brabant, Chevalier D’Arezzo!”

Hans huffed as he reached for the book, shaking his head. 

Maybe, just maybe , he thought, maybe this can keep you sane.

Keep the horrid thoughts and nightmares at bay.

At the end of the day, there was duty, still. At the end of the day, no matter how impossible it felt, Hans had to acknowledge that his world did not begin and did not end with Henry. 

He had to go on, somehow—even if Henry was-

Even if-

Hans cleared his throat, and opened the book. Focused, as hard as he could, on reading.

“What are these two words..?” He asked, voice husky, as he went through the first sonnet.

Brabant walked up to him—looked down at the text, brows slightly furrowed.

“Oh, this, oui…” He nodded. “Pity and forgiveness, mon ami. Pity and forgiveness.”

Hans felt God himself was saying something to him—half in care and half in mockery.

It worked: Petrarch. During the days, confined to that small room against his will and with company he would never otherwise consider, thanks to the sonnets, Capon was saved from the horrid thoughts that plagued him before. He even returned to being able to hold a decent conversation; started to joke, sometimes, and play chess or dice with Brabant. They discussed military strategy and exchanged useless courtly gossip. Laughed, a couple of times. Complained about the food and Von Bergow. Once, they even prayed their evening prayers together: Brabant taught Capon Pater Noster in French; Hans told him, half-awake, about the way the youth celebrated Saint John’s Eve in small Bohemian villages. 

During the day, sweet like honey, it felt like things could be alright again. That not everything was lost—that help could still come. That Henry’s… That Henry’s death wasn’t the end of the world. 

But the nights, cruel and inevitable and pressing into his mind and body, proved that sentiment to be horribly wrong. 

Of course the world ended. What was happening now was purgatory. Just a punishment for his sins.

Hans’ world ended with Henry’s death, he was sure of it. 

The world’s delight is a brief dream, the poet said. God, if only his dreams were merciful enough to be brief, too.

Each night, Hans dreamt. Each night, he woke up covered in sweat, panting, on the verge of vomiting—but he stopped screaming, at least. Perhaps it was Vauquelin’s presence that reined his reactions so; perhaps it was embarrassment, and shame, and simply, overwhelmingly simply, defeat. 

The nightmares were bloody. They had flavours and scents, and images that burned into Hans’ mind; sounds that echoed in his head for hours after he woke up. If Henry had died at Nebakov, then maybe Hans wouldn’t be so haunted: but he knew he didn’t go peacefully, or abruptly, or quickly. Hans was painfully aware that Henry must have died in pain, after hours of undeserved, horrid torture—or worse, even, at the hands of Toth.

And there was nothing Hans could do to stop it, or reverse it.

It was done. Their fates sealed, forever, in bile and blood.

Seven days into his captivity in Maleshov, Hans had the worst nightmare so far. 

For the first time since his first night there, the nightmare was free from blood or suffering or death—and somehow, it was threefold worse through it. No gaping wounds and tortured shrieks; no rubble and no noose. 

It was Trosky: the dungeon, musty and cramped and dark. Yet, somehow, Hans wasn’t in the cell he so feared—he was outside of it, hidden in the shadows. Sneaking, like he did back at Nebakov: when he eavesdropped on Henry, and Black Bartosch, and Klara. 

The light of torches was flickering and sickly yellow; the shadows they cast on the walls trembled and shook like Hans’ bleeding, hurt hands. 

“See?” Toth’s voice echoed out in the dark, a hissing, soft whisper. “Isn’t this better?”

In response, Henry’s ragged breath: deep and rough. 

“All this pretending, Henry… All this struggle,” a sound cut through the heavy air of the dungeon: that of a leather glove slowly squeezing. Sharp inhale; a ring of chains rattling as muscles tensed. A half-moan. Istvan’s satisfied purr, filthy and possessive and all-encompassing.

“Isn’t giving in easier? Isn’t it simpler?” Toth’s words echoed out from the cell, slithering into the depths of Hans’ mind. “Doesn’t it feel good, Henry?”

“It does,” Henry replied, low, husky, panting. “It does.”

“See?”

“Don’t stop,” half-command and half-plea, barked out. “Don’t you dare stop now.”

“Oh, dear boy,” Istvan’s voice was dripping with venom; it was sweet and intimate and burning slow like a candle’s wick in the dark. “Who am I to deprive you? How cruel would I have to be?”

A grunt, deep and rough; pleasure only slightly tinged with pain, open and unrestrained as Henry’s body tensed. 

“Well,” Toth’s smirk was audible. “I am cruel. But not that cruel.”

“Yes,” Henry breathed out. 

“I only wish we had Erik here to join us… Wouldn’t that make it more thrilling, boy?”

Another gride of expensive leather; another inhale, deep and shuddering. 

“I’d have him take you, slowly,” Istvan half-whispered into Henry’s ear; Hans could feel the breath, hot, on his own skin, somehow. “It would hurt, both him and you… But it’d be all the sweeter for it, no?”

“Yes,” Henry managed to let out, voice shaking and teeth gritting. Another ring of chains rang out as his body shifted, taut and tight. 

“You wouldn’t have to pretend you don’t like it. You wouldn’t have to pretend at all. You could just open up… Willingly, and softly, like a bellflower underneath the rays of sun in spring.”

Another moan in reply; Hans felt it rattle him like a well-aimed longsword strike against steel. 

“And then, to even the scales,” Istvan inhaled, either taking his pleasure in prolonging whatever was happening or, worse, inhaling in Henry’s scent. “I’d have you fuck his mouth.”

Chains rang out, again. Henry’s hips bucked, even though Hans couldn’t see them. 

“Would you like that?”

“Yes,” Henry’s voice was strained; his breathing heavy. 

“Good, good.”

Silence fell, for a moment. Hans could hear his own breathing.

“And you…” Henry’s tone was veering between threatening and begging. “Would you-”

“Hm?” Istvan was smiling, Hans could tell. Like the devil. 

“Would you have me?”

Istvan’s low laughter echoed out: a self-satisfied, cruel chuckle. 

Hans knew that laughter. He laughed like that, too. 

“Of course I would, Henry. And you would have me, too.”

Hans felt nauseous. 

“There would be no line between us, no abyss separating lord from peasant, noble from the ordinary man. No rules.” Leather, again, and a moan—Toth’s this time. 

Sour and sweet and satisfied. 

“Just want. Just hunger. Just this.”

Hans woke up: without screaming, without crying, without calling out Henry’s name again, embarrassingly and sadly. 

He woke up, covered in the sticky film of sweat and shame. Burning, throbbing shame. 

It was scary and filthy and horrid. 

He wished, God Almighty, he wished his body did not react the way it did—damning him so openly.

Hans prayed—a lot. At first he prayed for the pain to stop, or at least lessen; then he prayed for Von Bergow to leave him alone. Then, he prayed for Von Bergow to hint, at least, in some way, that Henry was indeed dead; and then he prayed for Von Bergow to decide to kill him, too, if Henry was gone. 

He prayed for God to take away Henry’s pain, too. He prayed to Virgin Mary, fervently, for the first time since he was a boy, to watch over Henry—if he was still alive—or take care of him if…

He prayed, a lot. Quietly. He hoped there was a point to it; in the face of this utter helplessness, he had to believe at least someone listened. He’d have prayed to saints, too, but he wasn’t sure which ones exactly. Henry would know.

The morning after that nightmare, once he came back to his senses—shook off all that haunted him, lingering—he prayed for Henry, again. But this time, the prayer was different: turning his worst nightmare into hope. Into some sort of silver lining, some unbelievable possibility. Some sliver of light in all that darkness.

He prayed for Toth to offer Henry an out, again. To ask him whatever he and his dog asked him at Vranik. He prayed for Henry to agree.

If there is a chance, any chance, God, he prayed, feeling his heart flutter in his ribcage like a hurt, scared bird. Any chance for Henry to survive, I beg, I beg. Let him take it.

Even if it meant we would never see each other again… Even if they made him hate me.

But if he lived, thanks to it, please.

God.

Make him take it.

Hans was staring out of the window: the clouds were sparse and light, and yet the day was rather cold, with the sun hardly giving much warmth. He was glad to be alone; Brabant woke earlier and went downstairs, guarded, to read outside. They were rarely afforded this much freedom, but Von Bergow was gone for the day: rode out for one reason or another—Hans had no way of knowing, but by the fact that the servants were suddenly quite busy and quite unhappy, he deduced Sir Otto was expected to return with some guests. Aulitz, most likely, and at least some of his men. 

It had been days since Von Bergow pestered Capon last; it had also been days since Brabant and him were allowed to ride out under the watchful eyes of guards to get some fresh air. Hans didn’t mind: he wanted to be alone. He was tired of pretending he wasn’t mortified. He was tired of pretending he didn’t think about throwing himself out of the window or refusing food and drink for days to simply fucking perish. 

All he wanted was for all of it to end. What other point was there, with Von Bergow assembling such a force to fight for Sigismund—and Zizka dead, and Godwin, and-

He couldn’t even think of that one name. His mind did not allow him to as much as think it. He banished his name from his mind with all the strength he had—it only echoed out in his dreams. 

Dreams which were dark and cruel, and inevitable. He kept remembering that small shed at Nebakov, the moment he so brazenly witnessed even though it did not belong to him and he had no right: Klara in his arms as he whispered into her hair: I’m good at dispelling nightmares, you know?

Well, now all that Hans had left were nightmares. The feeling of rubble pinning him down and the emptiness in his heart that he did not dare address. The way the chains rang out in the dark. The way horrid, pathetic pleasure mixed with pain, and then, inevitably, led to death. 

Suddenly, the door opened: it was Vauquelin, followed by two guards and a servant. He stood in the doorway, expectant. 

“My friend, you must cheer up!” He said, and Hans felt his jaw clench so hard he nearly saw stars. “Come downstairs! There is a travelling merchant arriving soon, and I am sure looking at the wares and listening to some Kuttenberg gossip will cheer you up!”

“I’d rather not,” Hans replied, still looking at the sky. It wasn’t the man’s fault, really: he had no idea that Hans was…

Well, in mourning, no?

“I am afraid I simply must insist!” The man exclaimed, stepping into the room. Hans turned to look at him and understood there was no choice: the annoying baron would not back off until he agreed. He stood up; his body felt like it belonged to someone else. 

“Yes! You’ll see, my friend, it will cheer you up!” Vauquelin smiled and gestured at him to follow. “The girl comes by this place every two weeks or so, and she always brings some good tidings!”

“Gossip, you’ve said,” Hans added dryly as he followed the man downstairs, guards right behind them. There was no point to any of it. 

“Well, gossip, yes,” Vauquelin laughed. “Perhaps a little bit, as you say, unseemly! But a man must keep himself entertained, no? And not wallow in self-pity, Monsieur Chapon.”

“Mhm.”

“They call her Cuckoo, on account of how talkative she is,” the Frenchman continued, entirely undeterred by the fact that Capon wasn’t even replying. “Ha! You’ll see! Never have I met someone who would talk so much! There is no one to match her!”

Hans doubted that very, very much. 

By the time they got downstairs and onto the courtyard, the couple of servants and guards who weren’t busy were already gathered around a big, two-horse cart. They moved slightly aside to let them closer—the guards that were with them stepped closer as well, definitely much more cautious with an outsider present at Maleshov than for the past couple of days.

The girl was showing one of the servants some towels or scarves—Hans wasn’t entirely sure—when Vauqelin pushed to the front. 

“Coucou, ma chérie!” He said with a big smile, bowing theatrically. “Please tell me you brought some books this time! My friend here could definitely use some reading to cheer him up!”

The guards were so close, Hans could basically feel their breath on the back of his neck. The girl looked at them, smiling—her smile was charming, very wide, her teeth really, really crooked—and shook her head.

“Not much, sir, not this time!” She replied, shaking her head all the time; strands of hair the colour of straw falling out of her braid and into her eyes. “I’ll be coming back from Kuttenberg in a fortnight or so, I promise to bring something then!”

“Bah, quel dommage!” Vauquelin gestured widely; then, he turned to Hans. “Chapon, my friend, it seems another two weeks you must bear the old Petrarch!”

The girl looked at him the second Brabant used his name—then at the guards. She looked surprisingly nervous, all of sudden: she was still smiling but became definitely less talkative; distracted. Hans started wondering, then, looking at the things on the wagon, how many of her wares were actually stolen. 

Brabant moved to the other end of the cart, looking through an array of jars and bottles; based on his recent barrage of complaints about the food they were given, he was most likely looking for spices. With what money he planned to purchase anything, Hans had no clue. 

“Where did you leave Peter?” One of the servants asked suddenly; Cuckoo flinched and laughed, quickly, to cover it up. 

“He’s at the stables, helping with that foaling mare,” she replied, passing her a different bundle of colourful thread to look at. Her hands were trembling slightly—no one noticed it but Hans alone. She kept sneakily looking at the guards, too, and then at Capon. 

He wanted to walk away—the last thing he was interested in were the baubles on the cart and servants’ idle talk—but her nervousness made him worry. Based on what Brabant said, she was a regular visitor at Maleshov; what reason did she have to be so stressed? The idea that she was peddling stolen wares was not entirely adding up. 

“And you, sir, speaking of horses,” she said to him, suddenly, clearing her throat and not looking up at him. “Do you like horses, sir?”

What sort of an asinine question is that? Hans wondered, stopping himself from being rude. 

“Hurry up,” the guard interrupted them, looking at the sky. “Sir Otto will be back soon and you ought to return upstairs.”

Hans just nodded. He wanted to turn on his heel—there was not much point talking to the girl—but she suddenly started speaking again, her eyes nervously darting at the guard. 

“Me, sir, I love horses, I truly do,” she was fidgeting with a string of red beads. “I was just at Trosky, Sir Otto has some truly beautiful horses there, that he does!”

Hans narrowed his eyes; pretended, all of sudden, to look through whatever scarves were laid out on the wagon in front of him. He felt the guard nearly press into his side. 

“There was such a beautiful horse there, by God, you wouldn’t believe!” She was babbling and giggling to hide her nervousness, shaking her head. “Grey and big and… Strong like an ox! And yet, sir, she was fast like the wind, I swear!”

“Alright, we’re going,” The guard muttered, gesturing at the other one standing beside Vauquelin. 

Hans felt his heart beat a little bit faster, for the first time in days. There was a point to her saying this, there had to be; she put such an emphasis on the fact that the horse was grey and strong that it made him pause. 

Wait.

“But such a shame, sir, such a shame!” Cuckoo said, shooting him a very quick look of her panicked eyes. “As I was riding out, wanted to take another quick look at her, aye I did, and you know what? She was gone!” 

“A shame indeed,” Hans said, unsure, looking at the girl; she wouldn’t look at him again, instead busying herself with rearranging the trinkets. He felt the guard grab his arm.

“Peter and I, we thought so, a shame not to see her again! But at the end of the day, you know, sir, it was a good thing, for her knight must have returned and taken her!”  

Hans just looked at her; he wasn’t able to stall the guard any longer.

Could it be? Could it?

“Well, whether he was a knight, I don’t know… Maybe a son of one,” she cleared her throat again. “But he came back for her, such a good horse she was!”

God Almighty, please, Hans thought, inhaling sharply as he looked at the girl. 

“Aye, he must have taken her, alright, and rode off… To Kuttenberg, I think!” She said, at last looking Hans in the eyes, for the briefest fleeting moment. “Maybe I’ll get to see her there!”

“I hope you will,” Hans said as the guard pulled him away. He suddenly felt dizzy; his heart was beating so fast he was getting lightheaded. If he could, he’d break away from the guard and hug her so hard he’d break her ribs. He had no clue who could have sent her—but someone must have.

She nodded, inconspicuous; then, she grinned, her nervousness slowly going away as she realised the guards did not pick up on anything.

“I’ll bring you some books, sir Brabant, I promise!” She added. 

“Thank you,” Hans managed to quickly say before the guards rushed them back inside. “Thank you-”

Cuckoo just laughed again, returning her attention to the servants looking through the baubles she brought.  It was a bright and loud and crooked laughter, and Hans knew immediately he would remember it forever. 

The skies were still cloudy—but Capon felt as if the clouds parted and a whole choir of angels from heavens descended and started singing, wondrous and glorious and beautiful and God fucking Almighty, Henry was alive. 

He was alive. 

Henry was alive. 

It was indeed Aulitz and his men that Von Bergow prepared to receive: they rode in a moment after Cuckoo left, rushing her horses to pull the wagon as quick as they could. Hans could only imagine a bunch of soldiers were the last company the girl ever wanted to find herself in. 

“The Praguers…” Vauquelin clicked his tongue in disapproval as he stood by the window, shaking his head. “A rabble! Look at them, mon ami, look at them!”

“Et mi… Sottragge? Al foco de' martiri,” Hans sighed, slightly frustrated; paid no mind to whatever Brabant was saying. He didn’t care about the forces arriving at Maleshov either. “Sottragge, Vauquelin? That’s…”

“Sottrarre, but the smile,” the man replied, rubbing his forehead in thought. “Soustrait, the smile, it takes away.”

“Ah,” Hans smiled, relieved. “That makes sense. Thank you.”

Brabant looked at him closely; Hans was stretched out on the bed, the book in his hand.

“Et…” He started, then wavered. Cleared his throat. “The pain, how is it?”

“Doesn’t hurt that much any more,” Capon replied, moving to the next page; scrunched his nose at another word he wasn’t certain of. “Thank you for asking, too.”

“And have you… Drunk? Much...? Today?” Brabant asked, voice hesitant—he did not want to be impolite.

“Hm?” Hans raised his eyes from the text and looked at him. “It’s still quite early, you know.”

“Ouais, mais…” Brabant gestured vaguely. “Your mood, mon ami, it is… Surprising.”

“Ah, yes, well,” Hans cleared his throat; sat up on the bed. “I guess you were correct, and some gossip helped indeed. And Petrarch. So, thank you, for that too.”

“A-ha! Je vous en prie!” The man smiled and bowed, courteously. “I am overjoyed, then! Hopefully, you will sleep better, too, non?”

“Hopefully,” Hans nodded, returning his attention to the book. 

Truth was, the young lord cared very little whether he would sleep well or not. He didn’t care about anything at all, other than one fact: Henry was alive. 

Nothing else mattered, let alone Hans—and it wasn’t a bitter thought at all. Relief and joy filled him to the brim; he could take any fate now, any torture or battle or death. Any life, too, even one without Henry in it.

As long as his Henry was alive. Nothing else mattered. 

“Ugh,” Hans rolled his eyes. “L'anima esce del cor per seguir voi? Per seguir? Voi?”

“Ah, suivre, voi… Vous suit!”

“Follows?”

“Follows you… Here, to follow you, oui.”

“Follow you…” Hans pinched the bridge of his nose.

“The spirit leaves the heart to follow you,” Brabant said, his intonation overly-theatrical. “Beautiful, n'est-ce-pas?”

Hans smiled, softly—nearly unnoticeably. 

Henry told him he believed Hans was lucky; it seemed like that happened so long ago but now rang out in his head with twofold force. 

He was lucky, good God, he was. 

More days passed. The relief in Hans’ heart slowly levelled, calmed down—was joined, inevitably, by doubt. By sadness.

By a very mundane and unbecoming feeling overcoming him as if he was a child again.

He missed Henry. 

He missed him so, so horribly.

If he was never to see Henry again… How would he bear it? All Hans wanted was to see him again, at least for a moment: make sure he was alright. Make sure he didn’t hate him. Look into his eyes at least for a heartbeat or two. Hear his voice. 

He kept thinking about Henry’s voice all the time. He kept thinking about the silvery thin lines of scars on the side of his face and the ragged hollow, barely healed, on his shoulder—he kept thinking about the way Henry’s eyes narrowed when he laughed, and how they teared up each time he yawned, loudly and openly and with little regard for manners. He kept thinking about how Henry’s skin felt beneath his palms—how his muscles yielded to his touch. He kept thinking about that wreath, and all that Henry taught him as he weaved it, absent-mindedly: angelica against witches’ charms, fleabane for fortune telling, periwinkle for the bride, and lovage, and rosemary...

He just missed him. It weighed him down—nearly as much as the fear that Henry didn’t.

Because, well, why would he?

Perhaps Hans should have gone to the kitchens at Trosky; perhaps he should have found some rosemary. Perhaps, like love-struck village girls, he should have sneaked a sprig behind Henry’s collar… Perhaps it would work. 

Perhaps then Henry would miss him, too.

Perhaps he would lo-

Hans shook his head. 

In joyous hope love led me on, only to make my life more sorrowful, rang out in Hans’ head.

“God,” he muttered, sighing. “Stupid fucking Petrarch.”

Stupid love. 

Stupid, stupid love. 

Looking at the ceiling, with Brabant sound asleep at the other end of the chamber, Hans listened to the far away song of birds ringing through the night. He kept thinking, too.

If Henry was alive—even if it was because he joined Toth, somehow, or ran away, or got rescued, anything—then there was hope.

Even if Henry was too hurt to ever forgive him—there was hope. 

Maybe, just maybe, they would see each other again, one day.

Hans knew he told God that he would be ready to bear not ever seeing Henry again, if it meant Henry would live… But it was a prayer, not a bargain, no? Not a contract, or a chirograph. The terms could be bent a tiny little bit, no?

Fortune favours the brave, after all, and bold; and what could be more brave than negotiating with God himself?

And so he did: he prayed, again, in his head, to God and Virgin Mary and whichever Saints that would fit, and he set his terms anew. 

Whatever they would ask of him—pain or coin or pilgrimage—he would bear, if only they let him see Henry again.

He would never be cruel to him again. He would never, ever, dare risk his loyalty. He would never do anything to endanger him, and endanger their friendship. He would never cross the uncrossable line, even if he was really desperate or really horny or really, really drunk. 

He would never be jealous, and he would never be greedy. He would set Henry free. If only he got to see him again, he would never demand anything of him. He would not expect anything—he would never ask for anything more.

Once his uncle finally yielded his lands to him, and his wealth, he would have a new church built. Or a chapel, at least. He’d have an altar painted by the masters in Prague—or Rome! 

Whatever, whatever you ask of me, Hans prayed. If I get to see Henry again.

Please.

God, please. Really, really, please.

Amen. 

Days and nights passed: just an endless stream of hours and sunrises and sunsets, and Hans didn’t know how long he had been there. A week or two, or three, or a month, or maybe it was years at that point, or maybe he had never existed anywhere else at all. Maybe he had been a ghost haunting Maleshov and nothing more. 

At least, if he were a ghost, he would not be a total failure. No wonder Hanush did not send the ransom yet. Who would?

Heavy clouds loomed over him once more, and this time there was no one to cast them aside. Neither Petrarch nor prayer helped. 

“Bah, mon ami, you cannot wallow in self-pity! You must have courage!”

Brabant certainly didn’t fucking help either.

“Listen, I think, in a day or two, Cuckoo could be back! Bring more books, and-”

“Unless she brings the heaviest book there is and launches it at my head with force enough to knock me out forever, then I don’t want it,” Capon huffed, arms crossed and brows furrowed in melancholy.

Brabant fell silent: looked at him with an expression that signalled he was both surprised and taken aback, and absolutely at a loss for words, too. Hans felt a bit awkward.

Well, you French prick, he thought, upset, it was funny, actually. 

Henry would have laughed at that.

God, he missed Henry. The world was such a dull and useless place without him at his side. 

“Let us play dice, non? It will cheer you up, my friend.”

Dice, fucking dice, Hans thought. And win again?

You keep losing because you’re stupid, Brabant. You’re stupid and your beard is stupid, too, and you’re not Henry, and no, I don’t want to play fucking dice against your French, stupid arse.

“Aye, let’s play,” Capon replied, clearing his throat. 

Wish this boredom could actually kill me.

As they sat at the table, hues of dusk falling into the chamber through the windows, some sort of commotion happened outside: barking, and voices, and shouting, and a servant’s horrified shriek. Then, the noise of men getting ready to ride out, rushed and hurried. The overwhelming thudding of hooves against ground. 

“What in the hell?” Hans asked, getting up. 

“That did not sound good, mon ami,” Brabant said, getting up slowly as well. He walked up to the window, cautiously leaning towards the open shutter. “Von Bergow is riding out, and all the men with him.”

“All his men?” Capon walked across the room to the other window.

“The Praguers, je crois, not all.”

“In such a hurry?”

“Who knows…” Brabant moved away from the window. “I do not like it, Monsieur Chapon. It does not bide well.”

“Bode,” Hans huffed.

“Ah? Comment ça?”

“It doesn’t bode well, Brabant, it’s-” Hans shook his head. “Never mind, forget it. What I mean is that I don’t like it either.”

“Yes, it’s… Worrisome, but…”

“But?”

“Perhaps it means something good, in the end, mon ami. Perhaps the scales are tipping in our favour, non?”

Hans furrowed his brows in thought.

Perhaps the man was correct. Perhaps this was a good sign.

Before he could reply, he saw Brabant’s eyebrows rise in surprise—then, drop in worry. He gestured at the door, looking at Hans with a shadow of fear in his eyes; then, he gestured at him to move.

Someone was coming, and it wasn’t any of the servants or guards: they knew to omit that one step which creaked. Whoever was coming was a stranger, and even though he tried to keep his steps quiet, that one creak gave him away.  A surprisingly loud creak.

Hans swallowed hard as his heart started beating harder in fear: the loudness of that creak meant only one thing. Whoever was coming was wearing armour, and plenty of it. 

Fuck, Hans thought, feverishly. We don’t even have weapons. He pressed his back to the wall; raised his head slightly to open his airways and breathe quieter. 

If I die here, now, he thought. I hope Hanush loses it and skewers this fucking turncoat like he deserves. 

The door opened: a looming shadow fell onto the wall. Heavy steps. A moment of hesitation. 

If I die here, now, Hans thought, trying not to panic, it’ll be so fucking sad. 

His eyes darted to the side: Brabant, just a second ago hidden behind a wardrobe, was now clearly and decidedly planning to lean out.

You stupid French arsehole, Hans thought, clenching his jaw. If you get us killed, I will stuff your stupid book down your stupid throat. 

“What is happening? Who are you?” Brabant asked, stepping out of the wardrobe’s shadow.

In the blink of an eye, the heavy, looming silhouette closed the distance between them—with a sword in the armoured hand, pinned the babbling baron against the wall of the chamber. Pressed the blade to his throat.

Hans held his breath—looked, for a split second, at the door left ajar, and then realised it would be entirely useless to even try to run. 

God, if I die here, now, please-

“If you make a peep, we’re done for!” The armoured silhouette barked out, rough and threatening and low—and with a very, very particular melody.

Like no other man Hans knew.

His heart skipped a beat. 

“Henry..?”

He turned his face to him: even in the dimmed light of the candles and with all the flickering shadows, the hue of his eyes was unmistakable. It was him. Somehow— God Almighty— it was him. Against all odds, it was his Henry, right there, right now. 

Hans couldn’t help but laugh: it was quiet and slightly shaky, but he laughed; the relief and joy that washed over him made him dizzy and giddy. He stepped out into the light—Henry’s brows unfurrowed and his whole expression changed, and then he laughed, too. 

Henry lowered his blade and stopped paying any attention to Brabant; instead, he walked towards Hans, grinning and sighing in relief. 

Hans had to stop himself really hard from running towards him—and into his arms. It would be-

Henry opened his arms, just a little bit, as Hans walked towards him; maybe it was a reflex, or maybe Hans imagined it. It didn’t matter: whatever the reason was, it dispelled the worry in Hans’ mind completely—and closing the distance between them, he fell into Henry’s arms, with force enough to knock him back a pace. 

Henry shifted his weight so they wouldn’t fall—took the step back with Hans in his arms—and embraced him, tightly. His armour was cold but there was such warmth emanating from him: and the smell of steel and marigolds, and mint, and smoke, and evening air. Hans felt Henry’s hand at the back of his neck, pulling him into the embrace; felt his heartbeat against his own even through the armour. 

God, he couldn’t stop grinning like a fool. Henry—it was Henry. He never wanted to let go; pressed his cheek into Henry’s shoulder, squeezing him with as much strength as he could muster. Henry laughed—the laughter reverberated through Hans’ chest—and patted him on the back a couple of times, comfortingly. 

Hans didn’t want to let go—God knew he dreamt about this, endlessly, for ages—but he wanted to look at Henry, too. He had to.

“Good God, Henry!” He exclaimed, his voice shaky. He leaned back but made sure to still hold Henry, his hands placed firmly on his broad shoulders. He looked at him: at his bright eyes, safe, in place, alright, and at his face, at his smile, and at all his limbs where they should be, and at the whole of him—his Henry—and back into his eyes, shaking his head. 

“How did you, h-... What are you doing here?” He babbled, still grinning, lowering his arms; how bright and hopeful his voice came out surprised even Hans himself.

God, he could stare into those eyes forever. 

“What do you think I’m doing, hunting boar?” Henry asked, eyebrows furrowed in an endearing expression. “I came to save your noble arse!”

Hans giggled. 

“My noble arse thanks you!” He exclaimed, bowing, and still giggling. 

As he looked up, Henry was laughing—slight blush on his cheeks, flustered—and shook his head. 

He was alright. He was whole. He was laughing. 

Somehow, he was alright; somehow, he was there, right in front of him. 

He came for him. 

Hans felt dizzy with gratitude and joy—and love, bright and stubborn and ridiculous. 

“Well, how did you get here?” Hans whispered, giddy. He had to stop himself from running into Henry’s arms again; he had to stop himself from telling him everything, right away, confessing, just simply and openly, everything that he felt. 

God, Henry came for him. 

“I’ll tell you later,” Henry replied. Hans thought he could drink every word from his lips, from now until the Judgement Day. “Who’s this?”

Right, Capon thought. Brabant was also there. 

“Akhem!” The man adjusted his stupid, French hat on his stupid, French head. “Vauquelin Brabant, Chevalier d’Arrezo…At your service.”

“Brabant led the defense at Kuttenberg. He’s Sigismund’s prisoner, same as me,” Capon explained. 

“Yes, and I came so close to holding the tower! Besides-”

“There’s no time for chit-chat!” Hans cut him off. You and your stupid stories, Brabant, I swear to God. “He’s our ally, we can’t leave him behind,” he said, instead. 

He had to move, had to do something with himself, his hands, everything—or he’d lunge at Henry again and squeeze all air out of him. 

“No doubt you’ve got a cunning plan for us to get out of here, right?” He asked, moving through the room, excitement and impatience visible in his every move. “Well! Let’s hear it!”

Henry looked at Brabant—Hans looked at Henry, and nothing else, as if enchanted. Couldn’t take his eyes away; Henry was alive, and well, and here!

“Of course I have a plan!” Henry’s voice rang out, strong. God, he missed his voice so much. “Listen… I got to the fortress through a secret passageway that old Lord Ruthard told me about. Von Bergow knows nothing about it!”

Hans kept looking at Henry’s face, torn between counting his scars again and kissing him. 

“C’est magnifique! Very cunning!” 

“And so far, the garrison has no idea I’m here. We’re lucky Von Bergow left the fortress along with von Aulitz and many of his men… So I’ll take you to that passageway and we’ll get out of here!”

All the joy and relief and excitement suddenly stopped in their tracks; Hans felt his breath hitch in his throat. 

“Formidable! I call that an elegant plan!” Brabant exclaimed. “So, what are we waiting for! On y va!

“Wait, wait,” Hans gestured defensively; felt cold sweat on his back. “A… A passageway? A dark, narrow passageway?”

God, no, no. 

Henry looked into his eyes.

“Well’ it’s just a passageway,” he shrugged. “There’s a bit of water in it, aye, but nothing we can’t handle.”

“You-” Hans struggled to swallow through his tightened throat. “You can forget about it!”

His back hurt, suddenly; his head started turning. 

“I’m not going through any passageway!” He added, his voice higher than he wanted.

“What?” Henry asked, looking at him with surprise.

“Let me repeat: No - passageway - for me!”

God, he’s looking at me like I’m a coward, he thought feverishly as Henry’s confused gaze burned against his skin. Well, I am. I am.

“It- It… It’s not… The chivalrous way!” Hans added, trying to save face. He felt his hands tremble—his fingers reflexively dug into the barely healed wound by the bed of his nail. 

“Huh?”

He thinks I’m an idiot and a coward, and a stupid prick making everything difficult again.

“It is not chivalrous, c’est vrai…” Brabant chimed in. “But in our situation it is more than felicitous.”

Well. You are, sounded out in Hans’ head in his own voice, mocking and cruel. Stupid and difficult, and a coward.

Hans’ hands were shaking no matter how hard he tried to stop them; clenched them both into fists, and it did nothing. Henry turned to look at him, again—glanced, briefly, at his hands, then back at his face. 

“Don’t worry,” he said, not turning his eyes away. “Just trust me. Remember what I said at Trosky?”

Hans felt his heart beat faster. It was fear, still, yes—but something else, too. His thoughts quieted, suddenly. 

“I won’t allow anything to happen to you,” Henry finished. 

“I remember,” Hans replied, inhaling sharply. “But if I faint or go mad in that passageway, I’ll put you in danger, too, and I’m not going to let that happen.”

Something shifted in Henry’s expression. 

“Relax, we’ll manage it together.”

He didn’t get it, he didn’t get it, he didn’t get it.

“Henry,” Hans looked into his eyes, again, hoping with his whole heart there was still hope to turn this around. He hated how weak his voice came out. “I mean it. You have to… You have to trust me on this one.”

Why the fuck would he trust you?

You’re a coward and a liar and a bitch.  

“Alright,” sounded out across the chamber, Henry's voice soft and assured. “I do.”

A short moment of silence; shadows played on the walls.

I do, echoed out in Hans’ mind.

I do— buried itself deeply, deeply into his heart, too.

Chapter Text

Alone and thoughtful, through the most desolate fields,

I go measuring out slow, hesitant paces,

and keep my eyes intent on fleeing

any place where human footsteps mark the sand.

I find no other defence to protect me

from other people’s open notice,

since in my aspect, whose joy is quenched,

they see from outside how I flame within.

So now I believe that mountains and river-banks

and rivers and forests know the quality

of my life, hidden from others.

Yet I find there is no path so wild or harsh

that love will not always come there

speaking with me, and I with him.

Sonnet 35. Solo et pensoso i piú deserti campi . “Il Canzoniere,” Petrarch. 

Throughout his whole life, waking up early—with the sole exception of waking up to hunt—was, most definitely, at dire odds with everything Sir Hans Capon stood for. 

Before he was old and bold enough to get in trouble for the rest of his vices—blaspheming and boozing and mouthing off, fighting and fornicating, and then whatever from the handy list of seven or ten that he found himself engaged in at a given time, inadvertently or entirely by his own free will—it would be his full and absolute refusal to get out of bed at a time befitting a Christian that would land him in hot water.

Among shrieks and tears, as a boy barely five or six winters old, he would get dragged out of his feather duvets by the ear by a regiment of nannies or nuns having the misfortune of being tasked with nursing him: not a morning would pass by in the narrow halls of Pirkstein without yet another of such outstandingly miserable spectacles. 

Then, in the seventh year of his life, the dry and weary pinching fingers of dry nurses were his morning call no more: the impugnable privilege of ensuring the boy crawled out of bed to attend to his studies was passed between the heavy hands of various tutors, from fencing to riding to chess and Church teachings; while it turned out to be a much more reliable method, bringing about acceptable levels of subordination without raising the levels of noise throughout the castle, it did also lead young Hans to abhor mornings with an even deeper hate. 

Gone were the days of pleading: no tutor would ever spare him the cane or the back of the hand if he resisted too much—he complained only once, to his father, and then never again, having received a punishment even more severe for unseemly whining and cowardly complaints. 

Once his father passed and Hanush of Leipa rode in, preoccupied with all the complex matters of caring for the estate, the times of an even shorter temper from the ruling lord of Rattay began. 

Therefore, Hans learned fast to wake as early as was demanded of him for each lesson and each mass—and then, as soon as he reached the age where no teachers pestered him no more, he learned even quicker not to get out of bed before the sun was high in zenith; or preferably, not go to his own bed at night at all, but instead fall asleep in the slothful safety of whatever ample bosom he has found himself favouring at the given moment. 

Or the stable, sometimes, entirely unbefitting a noble of his rank, or a plethora of places that would make all the Saints in Heaven shake in righteous indignation should they actually find out. 

Luckily for Hans, villagers finding him passed out in drunken stupor in their sheds or pigsties were usually so preoccupied with utmost fear for not having noticed and offered him their bed—a fear he happily and eagerly stoked each time to the full extent of it—that they had little time to consider ratting him out to his uncle. 

All in all, if there had been a scholar who could mould the idea of sleeping in into a valiant Latin motto, the world could rest assured Sir Hans Capon would choose that particular phrase to etch into his heraldry. 

It was, then, even more infuriating—bah, maddening and pestiferous!—that he had found himself entirely unable to sleep in even for a sweet minute or two while confined to the musty and ale-smelling walls of the Devil’s Den. 

No matter how hard he tried—and try hard he did, with God and Godwin as his witness—he would wake before the break of dawn, and lie awake pointlessly as the sun rose among the forest fog. No amount of wine or beer would succeed in aiding him to retain his sleep: if he got drunk enough the night before, the only thing changing would be the severity of his headache the following day; he would wake, just the same, before the sun itself did, but with the added punishment of having to withstand a heaving hangover throughout the rest of the day. 

The truth—the true reason for that sad state of affairs—was very simple and very, very damning. Ridiculous to the extent of making Hans himself groan in frustration and roll his eyes at his own hopeless heart. 

Each day he woke up at the break of dawn: hoping that day would be the day Henry would return. He was unable to sleep in for even a moment: the second his body got even a modicum of rest, his mind would bolt awake with a barrage of thoughts about Henry—and his heart would wake him up with a hollow, forceful squeeze of missing him entirely too deeply to ever admit to.

Not to mention the—pitifully far from rare—mornings where he’d get woken up by his pride and joy at full mast, eager, throbbing, and ruthlessly disallowing any attempts at ignoring it. With his thoughts about Henry being either the cause for it or the way out of it. 

It was another early morning when Hans woke, left his room, and went out to get his horse. Well, his was a funny way to phrase it, given it was one of Von Bergow’s horses he stole while escaping Maleshov.

Fuck that place, he thought to himself bitterly. 

Before he could get in the saddle, he heard a commotion at the baths: a shriek, countered by laughter, and a sound of what was, undoubtedly, various objects being thrown at someone. 

Of course, that someone—now running away from the tents entirely nude, laughing to the point of crying, holding his bits in his hands to cover himself—was Adder. 

Hans turned towards the baths, keen on checking whether the girls were all right; hopefully, to learn what happened, too, and try to coax out any new gossip out of them. 

It was a rather surprising revelation as of late: confined to Devil’s Den and the mismatched, ridiculous company of Dry Devil’s men, Hans found himself spending an unbelievable amount of time at the baths—talking. Gossiping, joking, conversing—bathing, rarely, and never actually doing anything else. 

Ugh, that’s so embarrassing, he thought to himself as he approached the tents. For no reason, truly; more out of habit of berating himself that hadn’t been fed for many days. 

“Sir Hans!” One of the girls shouted out, immediately, with a pleasant smile. “It is so early, no?”

“It is,” he shrugged, walking up to her. “Which makes me even more surprised to witness what I witnessed.”

“Aye, you mean Adder with his cock and balls in his hand? Running like his arse’s on fire?” The girl grinned. 

“I must repeat, Anna, that I am forever impressed with your ability to fit cock, balls, AND arse into one sentence,” Hans said, giggling. 

“What can I say, my lord, I am a woman of many talents,” Anna laughed, busying herself with tidying up the space a bit. There were shoes and cups and flasks strewn about on the ground. “Just as Adder is a man of many talents, the most dire of them being the ability to piss off Margaret every single time he comes here.”

“And he does come here a lot,” Hans added, sitting down on a bench he was used to sitting on every day at that point. 

“Aye,” the girl nodded. “This time, he hid inside the wooden tub, even pulling the lid on top of himself… Naked as God made him of course.”

“Of course.”

“If it was God that made him, and not some devil,” the girl sighed. “He gave poor Margaret such a scare again! Jumped out as she walked into the tent!”

“Is she alright?”

“Ha, yes, she is. Her fault, really, she was the one who took his clothes and hid them somewhere in the first place!”

“Huh?”

“Oh, aye! And laughed at him for a good hour as he searched for them beneath every bench and every tub, arse up in the air like a kitty cat in heat!”

Capon had to admit that the vision was quite funny, indeed. 

“Why?” He asked, slightly confused. 

“Well, my lord,” Anna walked up to him, holding some bundle in her hands. “You can rut and fuck aplenty, and anyone, but only some people you can laugh with.”

Hans didn’t reply—promised himself he wouldn’t think of that one particular someone —he just looked at the bundle she was holding. 

“I have the herbs for your fragrant water,” she said, handing it over to him. “Can’t say for sure if it’s exactly the same as what you’re used to, but I hope it’s close.”

Hans brought the wrapped herbs to his face and inhaled—and felt suddenly nearly dizzy with an overwhelming wave of missing Rattay. It was nearly the same as the mixture of herbs he used back home—the names of which he did not know at all—with maybe just one ingredient smelling differently.

“Very close indeed, Anna, thank you!”

“Now, we are happy to use these for your baths, we have more,” she said, smiling again.”But I wanted to give you this small bundle so you can take it to your room and use them there whenever. There’s a flask of rosewater to mix it with, too.”

“That’s very sweet of you. How much?”

“Oh, Sir Hans, nothing. It’s a favour for a friend!”

Hans wanted to say something about noblemen always paying their debts—but his mind was suddenly entirely elsewhere, once he understood what that one different ingredient was. Truth be told, it was the only herb he could tell apart from others so easily.

It was rosemary. 

And so, barely half an hour since he woke up, Hans caught himself thinking about Henry again, even though he really tried not to.

Maybe if he did manage to sneak some rosemary behind Henry’s collar, he would have been back by now. 

“You are leaving already, my lord?” Anna asked. “There’s some bread and butter if you’ve not broken your fast yet.”

“Thank you… I’m not just not very hungry,” Hans replied as he got up from the wooden bench. “And I’m, uhm, needed elsewhere.” 

He couldn’t wait to get Kubyenka, again, as soon as possible: ask, for the thousandth time, if the man was certain Henry was alright when they parted ways. And if he really, truly, had no idea why Henry chose to stay behind in Kuttenberg, and for how long.

“Aye, aye!” Anna nodded.

“Do tell Margaret that anger makes beauty spoil quite fast,” he added, teasingly, leaving the tents.

“Aye, sir, I will surely tell her that, once I’m ready to meet the Lord in Heavens,” Anna rolled her eyes. “Shoo, now! If you’re needed elsewhere, go elsewhere!”

Hans snorted, and walked back towards the stables. 

As soon as he was out of earshot, Anna sighed loudly and shook her head.

“Poor thing,” she muttered.

“Eh? Who?” Margaret asked, walking past her with a messy bundle of clothes in her arms. Her dark hair was still wet; there were droplets of water running down her collarbone that Anna chose to promptly ignore. “Oh, that lovesick bird?”

“Aye.”

“Some days I fear all that melancholy of his will seep into the water and into me, if I touch it,” she shook her head, holding the clothes close to her chest. 

“Do you think that’s possible?” Anna turned back to face her, eyebrows slightly raised in worry.

“No, you silly goose,” Margaret laughed, rolling her eyes. “We are, thank Mother Mary and All Saints in heavens, safe from any lovesickness, either in the air or in the water.”

Then, she moved again and walked past Anna; she shifted all the clothes she was holding into only one of her arms—freeing the other one to land a very precise and loud smack against Anna’s bottom. 

Anna giggled, shaking her head.

Then, she caught herself laughing, and quickly returned to cleaning up to keep her hands and mind busy. 

Hans was lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling in complete darkness. It was well after midnight: everyone at the Devil’s Den already asleep, all but him. His covers—just like skin—smelled like the herbs Anna brought him.

Smelled like Rattay. Like home. He really thought he wouldn’t miss it, and yet, with all that yearning and missing Henry in his heart, missing Rattay sprouted up as well. He had never been that far away from it and for so long, after all. 

He huffed to himself in frustration and turned onto his side, now facing the wall. The night was annoyingly warm; he cast off the covers and yet it did not bring much relief. The open window did not help at all, either.

Suddenly, in the silence of the night previously filled only with the lazy scratching of grasshoppers, he heard the sound of hooves against ground.

Then, the sound of the rider getting down from the saddle—loud thud—and a sigh, and something muttered to the horse as he tied it in the stables. In an overwhelmingly and unbearably soft voice. Entirely ridiculous voice. 

Nearly as ridiculous as the speed with which Hans’ heart started beating. 

God Almighty, he thought feverishly. What now?

I am in his room.

The butterflies that filled his stomach were so intense he felt nearly nauseous.

I don’t think he knows that I am in his room. 

Should I pretend I’m asleep or-

The heavy sound of footsteps on the stairs, intertwined with sighs and groans as Henry, exhausted, started unfastening the buckles of his armour as he was walking to the room, impatient to get out of it. He wasn’t being very quiet: had no reason to, knowing the company at the Den would be passed out in sleep so heavy even the angels with their trumpets calling the Apocalypse would not wake them. 

Hans rushed to grab the covers and pull them over himself—suddenly aware how stupid he must have looked, arse pointing out of the bed as he curled up on his side—and squeezed his eyes shut. 

Then, he opened them, realising he was facing the wall, and Henry wouldn’t be able to see his face anyway. 

The door opened, loudly—Henry grunted again, stretching his neck so hard Hans could hear it pop; shuffled inside dragging his boots against the scratched-up floor. And then, as the flickering light of the torch outside fell into the room: sudden and total silence. 

Henry must have held his breath, even, the silence was so absolute. 

Then, he moved again: closed the door so quietly Hans wouldn’t even know it happened, if not for the darkness that swallowed the room again. Walked to his bed, passing Hans; again, quiet enough to be barely audible at all. Sat down, took his armour off slowly and silently. Sat for a moment longer in the silent dark—and then, got into the bed. 

It was all so quiet Hans was really afraid Henry could hear his heartbeat; he held his breath, for a moment, listening.

It took Henry a minute—at best—to fall asleep. 

Unbelievable, Hans thought to himself in feigned frustration, and chose to ignore the involuntary smile that it brought to his lips immediately.

Very quickly, Henry’s breaths steadied, bordering on the edge of a half-snore: with his slow breathing, Hans could feel his heartbeat slow down, too. 

He listened for a moment—thinking about how long it had been since they slept in the same room or tent— and then, before he knew it, he fell asleep as well. 

No dreams, no nightmares, no waking up in the middle of the night… And no waking up at the break of dawn, either: Hans woke up only once he felt the rays of sun reaching his face, unbearably bright and hot. 

It must have been way, way past dawn. Closer to noon. 

For a brief moment, he forgot he wasn't alone in the room: rolled over to his side, rubbing his face and muffling a yawn. Then, he remembered, and his heart beat faster again. He looked over at Henry: still in bed, his bare back bathed in relentless sunshine falling in through the open window. Sprawled out on his stomach; his hair a mess, one arm under the pillow and the other falling off the bed—and his covers unceremoniously on the floor, cast off in the middle of the night due to heat. 

Henry must have tossed in his sleep quite a lot— with the heat being to blame, most likely—given his braies were decidedly not where they should be. Lowered nearly entirely past his buttocks; covering his legs more than what they ought to be covering.

Hans felt his ears burn as his eyes snapped, immediately and brazenly, to Henry’s arse. The darker hair there, catching the rays of the summer sun, had a sudden copper-gold shade to it.

Don’t worry, I’m not interested in your hairy arse! Rang out in Hans’ head in his own voice, in tandem with the splash of hot water at the Rattay baths. Admittedly, back then, he wasn’t—or rather, he wasn’t aware of what he was feeling and why and what it could have meant. Now, it seemed nearly funny.

It’d be difficult not to be interested, really, Hans thought to himself, staring. He recalled the way it felt to touch and squeeze the bottoms of girls he had been with: some soft, some boney, and some hardened by work or saddle; all very pleasant and exciting, truth be told. He thought about whether Henry’s arse would be on the softer side, like his stomach, or harder, like his arms—how deep would Hans’ fingers dig into the flesh while squeezing. How it’d feel beneath his palm if he slapped it, lightly, or harder. How it'd feel to just grab him, with both his hands, hard and brazen and with absolutely no shame. 

Hans breathed in, slowly, trying to steady his breathing. The air in the room was hot. 

But there was something else he was curious about, too. 

He rarely allowed himself that thread of thought. Maybe once or twice before—and then cast away, far away, somewhere into the corners of his mind. Not because he didn’t want it, but because it felt…

Fantasying about Henry fucking him was safer; not burdened with much further worry, other than the thousand little layers of being scared of being inadequate or not enough. Any qualms or fears he might have had before about his own passivity were quickly dispelled by the understanding that he did desire the other side of that coin, too; that desire alone, even if not acted upon, calmed his mind. Still, he did not allow himself to think too much about taking the lead—at least not with Henry. 

Thinking about the other scenario—Hans leading, taking, pushing, controlling—felt thrilling and amazing and also really wretched by fear. By fear that it would be him taking something as if he had some right to it. Taking as a noble takes. And Henry would give because he wouldn’t want to oppose him; wouldn’t want to refuse his lord. Or that Henry, far from experienced or educated, would give in without further consideration; without being aware of the meaning and consequence. Of the risk. 

Somehow that idea felt corrupting: as if he could damage Henry, even if, in some fantastical world, Henry would be willing and eager. Which, of course, he never would—because why would he. 

But in that hot room, two paces away from Henry sprawled out in the bed, bathed in the golden, unyielding glow of the sun, that worry eased. That darkness Hans so feared was dispelled, at least momentarily. Before, for weeks, it worried him: that it wasn’t just lust, but something more.

Now, it seemed that something more —that care, and love, and longing—were the saving grace there. Eased his worry; cast away any shame. Made any possible penitence seem far away and small and a reasonable price to pay for something worthy of risk. 

If it wasn’t for all those terms Hans himself set while asking God for help, of course. Not crossing any lines which ought not to be crossed. Not tempting Henry into sin, whatever its nature might be. Not risking what they had; not endangering the loyalty that, for some puzzling reason, rooted itself deeply into both of them.

Well , Hans thought.

Back at Maleshov, when he haggled in prayer, he made promises about deeds.

Deeds, not thoughts. 

And keeping thoughts bottled up too hard is probably irresponsible, truth be told, he thought to himself, and bad for one’s health. 

And so, looking at how the sun played on Henry’s bare skin, Hans allowed himself to cast his philosophical worries aside, and dive deep into the fantasy he was eager to explore many times before. 

Despite that heat, he would crawl into Henry’s bed: sprawl across him, body against body for a moment, before he’d settle slightly to the side. Half on Henry, half in the gap on the bed between him and the wall. 

Grind himself slowly, steadily, against Henry’s hip or thigh, his cock strained with unspent desire and slightly stinging from the roughness of his braies. With his hands roaming the plane of Henry’s back—waking him up without a rush by scratching his back, lightly, and grinding at a lazy tempo. Draw out a sigh or a moan, as Henry would shift slightly to allow him for a better angle; more friction. Maybe even roll to his side, push his arse back against Hans. 

Press against him—Hans’ cock right at the cleft between his cheeks, trapped in the relentless heat between Henry’s body and his own stomach. Then, as Hans would cast off his braies, the first maddeningly thrilling moment of skin right against skin. 

He’d place his hand firmly on Henry’s shoulder blade: to push him forward just a little bit, angling his body away to be able to see without breaking contact. See his cock glide between Henry’s arsecheeks: slowly, lazily, at a pace that would make Henry try to push back again, impatient. But Hans wouldn’t let him: not until he’d have him panting and squirming, arse backing into his grinding shamelessly and eagerly. Needy. 

And Hans would move closer again, satisfied with the sight for a moment—sacrificing his ability to see to be able to touch. Press his chest firmly into Henry’s back, his cock sliding still between his cheeks: and reach around to curl his fingers around Henry’s hard and needy length, leaking and twitching into his palm. Shift his hips, move slightly downwards: slip his cock between Henry’s broad thighs, and move there, back and forth—while stroking Henry, so excruciatingly slow it would border on cruel. 

Hans realised he was fully hard at that point, nearly painfully so: kicked up the covers a bit to hide it, hopefully. Kept staring, even though the fantasy slowly gave way to the very simple sight of Henry’s arse across from him.

It was really, really hard not to touch himself. Hans knew it would be very quick—he was nearly there already, having to stop himself from bucking his hips in search of any friction at all. But he couldn’t —God Almighty— of course he couldn’t. It would be the end of the world if Henry woke up, suddenly, and saw him just stroke himself right there. It would be terrifying: for both of them, certainly, but mostly for Henry. Who would be horrified. 

Who wouldn’t be! Hans knew he himself would be horrified if he woke up to someone doing that; it’d feel like some sort of violation.

Well, unless it would be Henry. 

Hans fantasised about overhearing Henry stroking himself plenty of times; or walking in on him doing it, or catching a forbidden glimpse. Now, the sudden added idea of being woken up by the sound of Henry not being able to resist pleasuring himself—maybe even at the sight of Hans alone—made his cock twitch and his throat tighten. 

Don’t be disgusting, you fool, he berated himself in his thoughts; kept his hands as far away from his own body as the narrow bed allowed for. 

On one hand, of course, it was disgusting. On the other, however, if bottling up thoughts was bad, bottling up… Other things, would be even worse for one's health, no?

Henry’s arse looked ridiculously good: just shamefully uncovered, in the warm light of the sun. Hans couldn’t help but wonder, still, how it would feel to press his body against that flesh: his hands or his cock or his mouth. How it would feel to-

“Morning, Sir Hans,” sounded out across the room; more a sleepy, raspy moan than a fully coherent sentence. Henry’s eyes were still half-closed—but he was looking at Hans from beneath those heavy eyelids and those ridiculously long lashes. Thankfully, he couldn’t see much: the sun was shining right into his face.

And onto his arse, still. Hans’ heart threatened to crawl out of him through his throat. 

“Mhm, morning,” he replied, clearing his throat. “When did you arrive?” He asked quickly, hoping to cover his awkwardness with conversation. Similarly how he was covering his hopelessly hard cock with the hopelessly thin covers. 

“Late last night,” Henry muttered into the pillow, closing his eyes again. “It’ll be noon soon and I’m still tired.”

“Aye, well, you should rest,” Capon said, shifting his hips slightly to make sure nothing could betray his current state. If he had to, he’d pray for it to go away. Although he had very little left to offer in exchange for more of that divine help. 

“Well, if my lord allows me,” Henry’s lips curled in a small, comfortable smile. “Then I’d be a fool not to sleep in some more.”

“Not only does he allow you, Henry, he’s ready to order you to,” Hans replied, smirking and contrarian. “You rode in straight from Kuttenberg?”

“Mhm,” Henry absent-mindedly reached with his arm to scratch his lower back, and pulled up his braies: a lazy, unwitting gesture more out of habit rather than realising, at any point, that his arse was nearly fully bare, sticking up. 

“Kubyenka got here three days ago,” Hans added, the need to be at least slightly mean being stronger than him. “You took your sweet time.”

“Missed my ugly mug so quickly, my lord?” Henry muttered again, sleepy, smiling into the pillow. 

So terribly. So, so terribly, Hans thought. 

“Pffth, ha! I can see Kuttenberg did not make you any wiser, did it, eh?” He said, instead, keeping his tone jesting and slightly pointed. 

Henry made a sound into the pillow—another half-moan, half-rumble—and dozed off again. 

Capon looked at the ceiling for a very long time, keeping his hands on the covers like a monk: debating, internally, the amount of indulgence he’d have to pay if he ended up breaking the negotiated terms. 

Just a little tiny bit. Just a tiny, very tiny, little bit. 

The baths provided the much needed respite from the heat of the summer day: the shade of its tents and the cold water poured into the tubs were a blessing. Anna was busy trying to launder a particularly annoying stain—red wine that Sir Hans brought her one evening while relentlessly working her to spill any possible gossip about the men staying over at the Den—when a familiar shuffle of steps made her raise her head. 

“You not know, maybe, where Adder hose is?” Janosh asked, scratching his head. 

“His hose?”

“Yes, yes, and… Shirt, too. Shoes, maybe…” The man sighed, loudly, sounding genuinely worried. 

“I might,” Anna replied, scrunching up her nose in a smile. “But nothing in this world is free, my friend!”

“I pay, I pay… Anything, just so he stop to run around naked, crazy bastard,” Janosh curled his moustache between his fingers pensively. “You know, he show his little cock to Hynek, last night, and Hynek wants to shoot us both now! Adder for his cock, and me for Adder!”

Anna couldn’t help but giggle into the small tub with laundry in front of her. 

“I’m not sure if it’s all that little, eh?” She grinned, standing up and drying her hands into her skirts. 

“For how often Adder show it, you would think it biggest sausage in Bohemia,” the man shrugged, following her into the other tent. “But that not the point. The point is that Hynek told him, eh, many time before: Do not show me yer cock, ye arsehole! And yet Adder do, all the time.”

Janosh’s way of imitating the one they called Dry Devil was not only incredibly funny, but surprisingly spot on, too. The whole conversation cheered her up: walking through the baths, she couldn’t help but whistle.

“Margaret…” Anna said in a sing-song voice, peeking into the tent. “I bring good tidings!”

“Mother Mary preserve me,” the other woman sighed, raising her head to look at her. “I heard you whistle. I know you’re up to no good.”

“Me? Oh, never!” Anna grinned; Janosh, standing behind her, leaned to the side to wave at Margaret in polite, if awkward, greeting. “Janosh here promised to give us some of his sausage for our supper tonight!”

“Hm, really?” Margaret eyed him, her eyes narrowed. “Just like that?”

“At low price of hose and shoes!” Uher exclaimed. 

Margaret snorted in laughter; shook her head so hard most of her dark hair escaped the braid. 

“What you say?” He asked, again, clasping his hands in a pleading gesture. “Please, I beg… Janosh too beautiful to get shot.”

“Shot?”

“Aye, the scary ginger fella said he’d shoot both him and Adder if, well, Adder doesn’t put his clothes back on.”

“Wouldn’t take him for a prude, out of all people,” Margaret tutted. “Well, alright. I’ll tell you where they are, but that sausage better be fresh!”

“Fresh as can be! In this heat, eh…”

“But you might… Hm…” Margaret stood up and guided them out of the tent. “Not be entirely happy with where they are, exactly.”

A magpie, somewhere deeper into the forest, cackled loudly. 

In the end, it wasn’t God that helped Hans calm down—lowered the sails, so to speak—but Petrarch. 

Hans stayed in bed, reading, even after putting on his hose and shirt; tried not to think about the sounds Henry made in his sleep too much, focusing on the poetry as hard as he could. He already thanked Brabant for giving him the book—perhaps he should thank him again. 

Henry groaned; stretched, while still in the bed, face squished into the pillow. Then, he sat up, bare feet hitting the dusty wooden floor. Ran his hands through his hair, only making it more of a mess—scratched his cheeks and chin, annoyed at the length of his stubble. 

“Sounds like scratching a damn boar on his backside, Henry,” Hans said, lifting his gaze from the pages and eyeing Henry.

“And have you ever done that, my lord?” Henry countered, stretching again. “I reckon you’d have to hunt the boar first, and we both know-”

Hans closed the book abruptly, with a loud thud. 

“Got enough sleep?” He asked, watching as Henry scratched his arms, and forearms, and then legs, too. “Why in the hell are you scratching yourself like this? Do you have fleas, you beast?”

Henry laughed—scratched his armpit, too, and then stretched for the third time, not gracing Capon’s little jabs with a reply. 

“I mean it, Henry, if it’s fleas, then you should tell me,” he narrowed his eyes. “I’ll go bathe right away.”

“Even if, Sir Hans, these were fleas… And not the simple, honest joy of scratching,” Henry laughed again, getting up and gathering his clothes. “Then you would be safe, unless we slept in one bed.”

Hans squeezed the poor Petrarch so hard he could have wrung all the letters out of it. 

“Do you know where Zizka’s gone?” Henry changed the subject, tying up his hose. “I wanted to talk to him about what happened in Kuttenberg.”

“Kubyenka told him the bulk of it, I think,” Hans replied, putting the book away and getting up as well. “I’m not sure where they’ve  gone.”

“They didn’t tell you?”

“They did tell me, Henry, but-” Hans groaned in frustration. “Brabant was saying something at the same time, too, and I couldn’t focus enough to understand both.”

Muffled laughter sounded out from somewhere beneath the fabric of the shirt Henry was pulling over his head.

“Sometimes I wonder how he didn’t talk your head off at Maleshov,” Henry said, looking around the room for his belt. 

“Can we not talk about Maleshov?” Hans asked, voice slightly sour, picking the belt from the floor and passing it to Henry. 

“Oh, sorry, yes, and thank you. Well, the second he returns, we should discuss what’s next.”

“Aye, that sly fox Von Bergow won’t wait around to act,” Hans reached for Henry’s coat thrown haphazardly over the table.

He wanted to pass the coat to Henry: but it was right next to Henry’s pack, and the pack caught his attention. Nearly overstuffed, as always, and something was slightly poking out of it; not herbs, this time, nor bandages, but fabric. Fabric, dark and richly embroidered; rather not fitting Henry’s style. There was something familiar about it, too, but Hans couldn’t exactly place it. 

He felt uneasy. 

Henry walked up to him—stood right behind him.

“Can I please have my coat, my lord?” He asked, a smile in his voice.

“Mhm,” Hans replied, absent-mindedly, turning around slowly and passing it to Henry. 

Henry reached for the coat—grabbed it—and froze. 

Hans forced himself to shake off the worries about what fabric that could have been, and returned his attention to Henry: who was still standing in front of him, unmoving, with a slightly strange expression on his face. 

“What?” Hans asked, before he fully registered what actually happened. 

For half a heartbeat he thought it was his imagination playing tricks on him—but it couldn’t have been. 

“Henry,” he said, feeling his eyebrows shoot up, then instantly furrow. “Did you just-”

Henry cleared his throat and took a step back, coat in hand. 

“Did you just smell me?!” Hans’s voice was two tones higher than he intended. 

Henry’s ears and neck turned crimson.

“No?” He asked, crumpling the coat in his hands. Shifted his weight, awkwardly, from one leg to another. Did not, decidedly, look at Hans; only somewhere in the vague direction of him.

“Henry, you’re the one preaching that lying is a sin, so don’t lie to me. You-” Hans shook his head. “You smelled me! What am I, a, a-”

He didn’t actually know what to say. 

“Apologies, Sir Hans,” Henry said, lowering his head in genuine apology. “It’s just, well, you…”

Capon crossed his arms, looking at Henry stubbornly from beneath his furrowed eyebrows; had no intention to make it any easier for the man. 

“You,” Henry cleared his throat, still red and clearly flustered. “You smell like Rattay.”

Against his arms crossed on his chest, Hans could feel his heart beat wildly. 

“Like Rattay?” He asked, his eyes still piercing Henry relentlessly. “Like the whole town? That makes no sense,” he added, even though it made all the sense in the world.

Henry raised his gaze, slowly—sheepishly looked into Hans’ eyes.

“Like… Back in Rattay,” he coughed out, finally, still crumpling the coat in his hands nervously. “You smell like you did back in Rattay. Apologies. I’m sorry.”

Hans was glad he kept his arms crossed; that way it wasn’t visible that his hands started shaking slightly. 

“I-” Henry started, again, scratching his neck—but before he could say anything more, the door to their shared room opened with a loud creak. 

It was Anna the bathmaid, panting, with worry clearly painted on her face.

“Henry!” She exclaimed, catching her breath. “We, uhm, we really need your help!”

Such familiarity, Hans thought. Somehow, Hans never considered that Henry spent significantly more time at the Devil’s Den. Much more time than him—more time at the baths, too. While coaxing out gossip out of Anna, somehow he never thought to ask about Henry, out of all people. 

He should have asked. He should have asked about any gossip, yes, but mostly, somehow, about how Henry liked to be fucked the most.

“What happened? It’s not wolves again, is it?” Henry’s voice was underlined with genuine concern. 

“No, it’s, ah,” Anna gestured at him to pass her some water; drank it in one big gulp. “In short, Janosh is stuck in a tree, and Sir Hynek is trying to, ah, shoot Adder dead with his crossbow.”

“What?!” Hans and Henry asked simultaneously. 

“Please, can we go? It’s a bit farther into the forest,” the girl explained, rushing them out of the room. “Come on, fellahs, please!”

Henry threw his coat onto Hans’ bed—the day was way too hot to wear much beside his shirt, anyway—and ran out after Anna.

Hans huffed, rolled his eyes, and followed them. 

Wild, loud cackling of magpies turned into an overwhelming cacophony, mixed with Adder’s howling, impish laughter, and Dry Devil’s curses rolling off his tongue in a vicious and relentless tempo. Janosh was indeed stuck in a big tree, albeit on one of the lowest branches, with Margaret unsuccessfully trying to reach his leg—as if it was supposed to help, somehow.

Far up in the tree, like a flag, Adder’s hose danced in the wind. 

“What the fuck,” Hans muttered to himself as they got there. Henry looked at everything with eyes so wide they threatened to roll out of his skull.

“If you ever!” Dry Devil shouted, drawing his crossbow again. “Pester me with yer cock!” He aimed at Adder, who immediately skipped and ran behind the tree. “I will! For fuck’s sake! Rip it off!”

Dry Devil pressed the trigger and fired: the bolt dug deep into the bark of the tree, making Margaret jump up, frightened, and fall to the ground. Anna immediately ran up to her. 

“Hynek, you shoot at ladies, eh!” Janosh shouted from the tree. “Crazy, you crazy!”

“I will shoot you, too, in a moment!” Dry Devil yelled, spit flying out. “You should know how to keep him in check, you bastard!”

“I try! I try!” Janosh tried to raise his hands in a defensive gesture but quickly realised he really needed to hold onto the branch. “But his clothes, you see, they land in tree! Janosh try to get it!”

“Wait, let me help you get down,” Henry said, butting in. He gestured at Dry Devil to get him to lower his crossbow; the man spat on the ground, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“Who put his fucking clothes in the tree?!” He shouted, crossbow finally lowered. 

“I did,” Margaret replied, voice only slightly shaky, dusting off her skirt. “In jest.”

For a moment it seemed like Dry Devil wanted to yell something—but he looked at the girls standing beneath the tree, and then at Henry trying to get Janosh down; then, again, at half-naked Adder leaning out from behind the tree. 

Then, he turned to Hans. 

“Fucking hell,” he sighed loudly, dropping his arms in resignation. “These stupid fuckers will be the end of me, well before the war gets me.”

“Well,” Hans replied diplomatically. “At least you’re not bored, eh, Sir Hynek?”

Dry Devil rolled his eyes with a groan, and left, shaking his head and muttering curses under his breath. 

Hans turned to the scene playing out in front of him and brought his hand to his chin, rubbing it in contemplation. 

Henry started climbing the tree just enough to be able to reach Janosh; seeing that, Adder tried to do the same but failed right away, forced to jump back down to the ground. The girls used the commotion to quickly scurry to a safe distance, just in case Dry Devil returned—somewhere behind Hans. 

After at least ten more minutes of struggle, Henry managed to get Janosh down. 

“Henry, my Henry!” The man exclaimed, loudly, and hooked his arm over Henry’s shoulder. “You save me!”

“Aye, well,” Henry cleared his throat, flustered.

“Like Janosh is maiden! And you, Henry, my knight, eh!”

“Pfft, bez przesady, rycerz od razu,” Adder muttered to himself sourly, crossing his arms over his bare chest. “Ubrań jak nie miałem tak nie mam!”

“What did he say?” Henry asked. 

“We need to reach clothes, he say.”

“I’ll get them,” Henry said, immediately turning to the tree. Assessed, looking up, the height to which he’d have to climb to in order to get the clothes. 

He started climbing, slowly, grunting as he searched for the next suitable branch to hold onto. 

On the ground: Janosh, worried, with Adder hooking his arm over the man’s shoulders tightly; Margaret and Anna, standing side to side with heads resting against each other, and finally, Hans.

And Mutt.

The dog must have followed them at some point, and now sat quietly next to Hans, looking curiously as his master was trying—and failing—to climb the tall tree. Hans scratched the side of his muzzle absent-mindedly. 

“Doesn’t seem like it’s going all that well,” Anna whispered, thinking only Margaret could hear her. “How did you even get these clothes that high up?”

“It was a lot of work, let me tell you,” Margaret replied, hushed. “Thank God it was funny, at least.”

“You’d think the man has more clothes than just that, no?” 

“Oh, he does,” Margaret snickered. “He just thought it would be funny to run around naked and blame it on me.”

With his arm still over Janosh, Adder turned around and stuck his tongue out at the girls. Margaret reciprocated, making a rather undignified sound and sending Adder into another fit of laughter. With how tightly he held Janosh, he rattled the poor man with the strength of his laughter, too. 

Henry huffed, frustrated—and jumped down, landing with a loud thud.

“I don’t think it’s even possible to climb this tree,” he said, rubbing his scratched up hands together. “The branches higher up are too far away from each other.”

“No i chuj,” Adder shrugged. “I co teraz?”

“I give you my clothes, maybe…” Janosh wondered out loud. “But they too big, I think, eh?”

Hans rolled his eyes so hard it nearly hurt; no one noticed it so he made sure to sigh loudly, too. Successfully, as all eyes turned to him. 

“Make way,” he huffed, gesturing at Henry to move aside. “Can’t believe you fools can’t climb a simple tree.”

“Go ahead, if you want to, Sir Hans,” Henry shook his head and crossed his arms. “I mean it, the branches up there-”

“Henry, please,” Capon shot him a tired look, shutting him up immediately. 

Then, quicker than it took the surprised spectators to fully comprehend what happened, he climbed the tree—gracefully and fast, and without much trouble. He reached the top of it without tiring himself out and got the clothes, throwing them down carelessly right onto Henry’s and Adder’s heads. 

“Anything else you need from the tree, while I’m still up here?” Hans yelled down, looking at their shocked faces. “Some leaves? A detailed description of the lay of the land?”

Henry huffed in something between frustration and badly reined in pride. 

“Getting down, it not easy!” Janosh shouted. “Careful-”

Before he could finish the sentence, Capon was already on the lowest branch—-then, jumped down with just as much grace as he had climbing up. Bowed, theatrically, chest puffed up in self-satisfaction. 

“Jebaniutki,” Adder shook his head, putting the shirt on and grinning. “Ale wam teraz łyso pewnie, co?”

“What did he say?” Hans asked, turning to Janosh.

“Adder… Very thankful, and impressed!”

“Well,” Capon cleared his throat and shrugged, as if he wasn’t beaming with pride. “There you go. It was nothing.”

“Do I still get that sausage?” Margaret asked; then, she immediately clicked her tongue in reprimand, shushing Adder before he could say anything. 

“Yes, yes,” Janosh replied instead. “We go now, I give.”

As they passed Henry and Hans, and Mutt, Anna smiled in gratitude. 

“Thank you!” She threw in her sing-song voice. “Sir Hans, who would have thought, eh!”

Hans returned the grin, bowing again; Mutt barked happily, wagging his tail. 

Once they were left alone, still standing beneath that tall tree, Hans turned to Henry, shielding his eyes from the relentless sun. 

“Staring again, Henry!”

“Aye, sorry,” Henry replied, shaking his head in disbelief. “That was bloody impressive, Hans. Really.”

“Eh, just because you two couldn’t do it doesn’t make it all that impressive,” he said, shrugging. Realised immediately that, once again, it sounded unnecessarily cruel. “But thank you, thank you,” he added, hoping to smooth his blunder over immediately. 

“God, but the sight from up there must have been impressive, too!” Henry whistled. “I bet you could even see Grund from there, if not Kuttenberg!”

“I mostly focused on looking at your gobsmacked faces, really,” Hans giggled. “Now, let’s get back inside, the sun’s fucking relentless.”

“Aye,” Henry nodded and went after Hans, with Mutt right at his heel.

“But,” Capon continued, turning his face to Henry just a little bit, smirking. “It was a nice feeling, yes.”

“I can imagine!”

“And I was lucky, too, you know…”

Henry looked at him, eyes a little bit too wide and bright.

“Why?”

“Well,” Hans shrugged, stopping himself from laughing as they walked towards the Den. “Lucky there weren’t any squirrels up in that tree, no? Lest they shagged me, the lot of them.”

Henry burst out in laughter louder than Mutt’s joyful barking. 

The temperature at the Den was survivable, at least downstairs: shutters closed to keep the sun out, fires put out, and most of the company stripped down to hose and shirts, and an occasional open coat thrown haphazardly over the shoulders. Cold beer from the cellar was in high demand—worryingly so, given that each time any of them went out to piss, the heat of the sun made the booze go to their heads sevenfold quicker. Without Zizka to keep them in check and Kubyenka to hoard most of the beer—and with Dry Devil joyfully aiming to outdrink them all—the Pack enjoyed their break from fighting and planning with as much intensity as they could. 

Henry nursed his beer slowly. Not because it was bad—although he had much better ones in Kuttenberg, and could already tell this one was nearing the time it’d be off—but because he did not want to get too drunk too quickly. Too easily. 

He kept looking into the tankard he was needlessly warming in his hands, watching the barely present foam bubbles dance on the surface slowly. He tried not to look up too often, but it was hard to stop himself: Hans was gesturing wildly, telling some ridiculous story loudly and extravagantly, tankard in hand. He was leaning far back on the bench he was sitting on, with his legs up, crossed on the one in front of him. Adder and Janosh, sat closely next to each other—close to the extent of keeping, accidentally, reaching for the other one’s beer instead of their own—listened intently to his every word. Even Brabant shut up, for a moment, and Dry Devil did not chime in with any frustrated comments. 

Hans did have a talent for telling stories, at least those drunken ones, full of laughter and filth—and, as Henry was very aware, blatant exaggeration and lies. He enjoyed the attention, too, the beer he had already easing any worry he would usually have. 

The tree thing must have helped, too, Henry knew. But it was also the reason why he had to stop himself from staring again.

As Hans was climbing, barely clothed by any reasonable standards, Henry couldn’t help but stare: how his hose—thank God closed at the front and the back—stretched across his arse. How, when he reached for a higher branch, the shirt tucked into it inadvertently rode up, baring just a bit of his back, just a bit of his stomach. How small droplets of sweat rolled down the back of his neck, already slightly red from the sun. How his arms looked, muscles tensed, and his thighs.

Henry rubbed his forehead, sighing. Keeping himself busy in Kuttenberg was much easier than this, even though he thought missing Hans would drive him crazy.

Because this—sitting two paces away, basking in his glow—was as pleasurable and thrilling as also sort of… Well, hard to control. Hard to hide. 

“Alright, fellahs, time to piss!” Hans exclaimed joyfully and stood up, only slightly swaying. Put his beer away—drops of it shooting up into the air with the force of the half-drunken motion—and moved to the door. 

Janosh quickly started another subject, pulling Dry Devil into the conversation; Henry wanted to join, too, perhaps, when he noticed Capon was standing by the door, expectantly. 

“Did you not hear me, Henry?” He asked, confused, leaning against the door frame on an outstretched arm. 

“Oh, right,” Henry stood up as well, leaving the warmed beer on his table in the corner. “Apologies, Sir Hans, didn’t know time to piss included my humble self, too.”

“Of course it does,” Hans giggled, tipsy, as they left the Den. Scrunched his whole face the second the unyielding afternoon sun hit it. “Shit and fuck, the sun’s crazy, eh?”

“Shit and fuck, Sir Hans?” Henry asked, following him to the line of trees beyond the stables. He couldn’t really understand why his lord insisted, each time, to go that far away to piss. It’s not like he had anything to be ashamed of.

“Aye, well,” he replied, resting one arm against the tree in front of him to steady himself and lowering the other to pull down the front of his hose and braies. “Bad influence of one of the girls at the baths here!”

“Oh, Anna, aye,” Henry laughed, stepping back a bit to get out of the rays of the sun hitting his face. 

He wasn’t very surprised to learn that Hans spent much time with Anna: she was pretty and sweet, and funny. Margaret was decidedly less Hans’ type—although, truth be told, Henry was certain his lord tasted fruit from both these trees anyway, as they say. 

“ Henry, ” Hans’ sing-song voice pulled him out of that thread of thought. He stopped from continuing for a brief moment—the splash of piss against the ground—and then kept going. “So, how was Kuttenberg?”

He really must have drunk a lot, given how long he kept pissing. 

“And! Before you chime in with your doom and gloom,” he added, shaking off before tucking himself back into his clothes. “I mean before all that’s happened now. Back when I was you know where.”

“Aye,” Henry nodded. Imagined, for a second, a world where the pissing could be just an excuse to get him into the forest, out of the range of prying eyes. 

It was a bit embarrassing how quickly he’d get down on his knees if Hans as much hinted at wanting his cock sucked. 

“So? Did you drink too much already?” 

“Oh, no, sorry. Kuttenberg was great. Big. Easy to get lost in.”

“For three days, sometimes,” Hans added, clicking his tongue and pretending to be suddenly very interested in the shape of the sparse clouds passing them above. 

“I can tell you all about why it took me three days to get back here, Hans, but it’ll bore you to death.”

“Yes, yes, yes, blah, blah, blah,” the young lord giggled as they made their way back to the Den. “I’ll get it all out of you anyway! I just need to get you nice and drunk first!” He grinned, turning to Henry as they stood before the doors leading in. 

“I can outdrink you even on a bad day, Hans,” he reciprocated the grin.

“Ha! No way!” Hans laughed as they walked in; instead of returning to his spot, he turned to the stairs. 

Right, Henry thought. He’s had a piss so he’s going to go wash his hands.

Strange, strange man, he kept thinking, shaking his head. Of all things Hans did, that was definitely one of the weirder ones. 

But, God Almighty, it did mean he smelled like sage and rosewater, again. And meadowsweet. 

“Henry!” Sounded out from the stairs. “Are you coming or not, you beast!”

Oh, right.

And so Henry ran after his lord, trying very hard not to grin—and trying very hard not to tell the man how absolutely horribly he missed him for the past many weeks, even in those small, rather stupid things.

Once he entered their shared room, quietly watching Hans dip his hands in the herbal rosewater in the small bowl, he realised, once again, that he had never seen him do it the few times he stayed with him at his Pirkstein room. 

“Do you have a bowl like that at Rattay?”

Hans looked up at him, reaching to wipe his hands with a towel—then, suddenly, turning slightly pink and just wiping them into his hose. 

Henry couldn’t help but think that, if he was to kneel and suck his lord’s cock now, it’d all smell like meadowsweet, too. 

“I do. Prettier than this wooden thing,” Capon said, shrugging. 

“I’ve never seen it.”

“Because I hid it,” he sighed. “When I knew you’d be coming, I hid it under my bed. My mother, rest her soul, would kill me if she knew.”

“It was hers?”

“Aye. My father bought it for her from a Venetian merchant when he was courting her, I think… It’s really quite nice.”

“I’d,” Henry cleared his throat. “I’d love to see it, some day.”

“Ha, yeah,” Hans’ face brightened again. “Once we’re back home, I’ll show you. No reason to hide it now, after all.”

As they walked downstairs again, both choosing a slower tempo than they had any reason to, Henry decided to just be direct again.

“Why did you hide it in the first place?”

Hans turned to him, in the surprising darkness of the Den’s corridor.

“I thought you’d judge me.”

“I wouldn’t,” Henry replied.

“Back then? Of course you would,” Hans grimaced, shaking his head all-knowingly. “I was such a prick back then.”

“I wouldn’t,” Henry repeated. “I would judge you for some other of your noble shortcomings, probably,” he added, in jest, to break the tension. “But not that. I liked that.”

“Oh,” Hans said, standing still and unsure what to do with his hands or where to look. 

“I still like it,” Henry added.

Hans did not say anything: even a spare oh did not find its way out of his half-open mouth. 

Henry could feel his heartbeat in his temples—his throat was slightly dry, suddenly, and he knew he could really use that lukewarm beer he left downstairs. 

“Speaking of herbs!” Hans said suddenly, lifting his index finger like a scholar boasting about a breakthrough and with his voice just a little bit too high to be entirely nonchalant. “We should go to the baths! Have the girls pour some cold water over us, what do you say? The heat’s fucking relentless!”

“Aye, good idea,” Henry nodded, solemnly, trying not to laugh. 

“And I really want to drink more of that cold beer but without the risk of blacking out the way you did, as Janosh was dear to tell me two days ago… So, cold water is just the thing I need to keep going!”

Henry shook his head, laughing openly.

As he followed Hans outside, into the scorching sun, he once again imagined a beautiful world where going to the baths together would be just a pretext to, hopefully, have his lord whisper filth into his ears from behind, as he took what Henry would give him every right to take. 

The sun was, somehow, still absolutely fucking relentless, even though it would set soon; the second Hans stepped out of the Den, with Henry following close behind, it blinded him. Again!

He stopped in his tracks abruptly, shielding his eyes from the rays; his head started to spin a bit both from the warmth and the light and the litres of beer he drank up to that point. He stopped so abruptly, in fact, that Henry leaving the Den behind him crashed into his back, nearly throwing him off balance. 

God Almighty, rang out in Hans’ head as he felt, debilitatingly, the whole of Henry’s body press against his back and arse for a brief second. 

“Oh, shit, sorry-” Henry blurted out, reflexively catching Hans by the elbow so he wouldn’t fall. 

He was, however, still way too close to Hans for his own good. 

“Henry,” Hans huffed loudly, turning around to face him. “Watch where you’re going!”

“It’s you who stopped suddenly!” Henry countered, brows furrowed. “As if the sun being outside was somehow a new, surprising revelation!”

“Careful now!” Capon replied, his hands on his hips. “Don’t think you’re suddenly above any rules! Just because you’re- you’re,” he cleared his throat, standing his ground. “You’re-”

Henry just looked at him, eyebrows raised. 

Well fucking done, Sir Bitch-a-lot, Hans thought. Way to turn this around in your favour. 

“Actually,” Hans mustered cleverness enough to say. “Benevolent and magnificent as I am, I shall be the bigger person and simply forgive your transgression,” he finished, eyes closed in an expression of utmost contemplation.

“The transgression of bumping into you because you-”

“Silence, Henry,” he added, raising his hand in a very noble gesture. Over-exaggerated, ridiculous gesture. “Lest I have you flogged in the market square.”

Henry shook his head, trying not to smile. 

“Not the market square, my lord!” He replied. “All my friends go to the market, and they will laugh at me!”

“Your friends? You mean the swine and hens brought to be sold in the stalls?”

“Aye, my lord, and the capo-”

“Henry!”

“Aye, aye, my lord, please forgive me!” Henry added, lowering his head in very convincing penance. “I am but an insolent peasant…”

“That you are,” Hans said, opening his eyes despite the rays of the sun a little bit, just to sneak a peek at Henry. “Insolent, that is. More accurately, I’d add bastard at the end there.”

Henry snorted in laughter. 

“Now, move your insolent arse towards the baths at once,” Hans commanded, voice high and mighty as if he was a royal first in line to the throne of the Holy Roman Empire and not a Rattay noble. 

“Aye!” Henry nodded and scurried towards the baths in an exaggerated, hunched-over manner that, in his mind, signalled peasant more than his usual gait. 

Capon, following right behind, nearly pissed himself in laughter.

When they got to the baths, they were both suffering from overwhelming pain both in their stomachs and their cheeks, all from laughing at the more and more ridiculous things the other one was saying. They were so busy laughing at each other, in fact, that they did not notice Anna and Margaret exchanging very telling looks. 

“Cold water! Cold water! My kingdom for cold water!” Hans exclaimed dramatically.

Henry thought that was a very clever phrase—could imagine it becoming important in the future, too, somehow. 

Or maybe it was the sun and the beer muddling his thoughts. 

“Well, my dear fellahs,” Margaret said, eyeing them slowly. “I am very sad to inform you that we are entirely out of clean, cold water.”

Hans stopped laughing immediately.

“What?!”

“Aye…” Margaret replied, shaking her head in great, nearly convincing sadness. She ignored the confused look Anna sent her, too. “Well… One tub, perhaps, we could fill… But not more.”

“But-” Anna tried to chime in but the taller woman elbowed her in the ribs, as subtly and sneakily as such a gesture could be performed. 

Mother Mary and All Saints in Heaven. 

“Well,” Hans cleared his throat. “As long as you are willing to bring us some cold beer from Treadlight, too, we shall be alright with that.”

“Wonderful!” Margaret exclaimed, all sadness magically gone. “The southmost tent, Sir Hans, then.”

“Thank you, dove.”

“Sir Hans.”

“Thank you, Margaret,” he corrected himself, the tips of his ears crimson. 

Anna giggled. 

As they walked to the tent the girls pointed them to, Henry started clearly dragging his feet.

“Henry?”

“I handle this heat much better, I think,” Henry said, as the tub was getting filled and Hans was halfway through wriggling out of his hose. “Back in Skalitz, we often had to-”

“You can talk and strip at the same time, no?” the young lord interrupted him. “So, you know. Chop chop.”

“I mean, uh,” Henry cleared his throat. “It’s alright for you to get in, last tub and all. I will… I will be alright. Without.”

Hans narrowed his eyes and looked at Henry closely. Usually, his own mind would be quick to chime in with something cruel to make him feel even worse—a barrage of thoughts about how Henry doesn’t even want to get into the same water with him—but the cold beer blissfully tuned it out. 

“Are you calling me fat?” He asked, suddenly, trying not to betray his facade by laughing. 

Henry’s mouth fell open; he had no idea what to say. 

“W-what?” He coughed out, at last, his neck blooming in red. 

“Well,” Hans continued, pulling his shirt over his head and standing in front of him in just his braies. “You’re saying we can’t both fit? So, Henry of Skalitz, are you calling your lord fat?”

Henry sighed, resigned, and shook his head. 

“You are impossible, sometimes, Hans.”

“I might be,” Capon grinned. “Now strip! And get into the water!”

Henry shook his head, laughing, and started untying the straps holding his hose up. 

The water was colder than the witch's tits. The water was so cold that Henry felt his balls retract and his spine tingle. 

Hans was sitting in the tub, eyes squeezed shut.

“That’s so-” The young lord said, through gritted teeth. “That’s sooo fucking cold. Oh, God.”

“It was your idea,” Henry replied, leaning back against the edge of the tub and trying to relax. He tried, very hard, not to think about the last time he shared a tub at the bathhouse with someone. 

“Yes, yes, I know,” Capon started wriggling around, trying to warm up. “You seem to handle cold better, too, eh?”

“Well, it’s not like we had baths at Skalitz,” Henry replied, watching Hans wriggle around and rub his arms. “Often, we’d just bathe in the creek. It was just as cold.”

“I need to tell Radzig to remember about baths once he rebuilds the village,” Hans said, pensive, more to himself than to Henry. 

“Also, I think you might be colder, given you’re sunburnt.”

“Pfft,” Hans huffed. “Where’s that beer?”

“Oh, you should absolutely ask that question louder,” Henry laughed, glad the conversation didn’t linger on his home for too long. 

“I’m not that foolish, Henry,” Hans said, hushed. “She’s scary, that Margaret, and I am not getting on her bad side.”

“Oh, the great Lord Capon of Pirkstein-” Henry wanted to say something ridiculous in jest, but he was promptly interrupted by Hans splashing the freezing water right into his face. “What the- That’s unfair!” He shouted, spitting. 

“What is?” Hans asked, batting his eyelashes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“See, I’d splash you back, but I fear the consequences would be too grave for a poor, insolent peasant that I am,” he huffed.

He felt, undoubtedly, Hans’ calf against his own. 

“You can try and see,” the young lord shrugged, grinning. Before anything else could be said, Anna brought a bottle of beer. 

“The, uhm…” She hesitated, looking at the men in the tub, stripped to their braies and shivering. “It’s the last bottle, I’m afraid, that Treadlight allowed us to take,” she finished, her eyes darting somewhere to the side for a second, undoubtedly at Margaret. 

“That's alright!” Hans exclaimed, reaching out for the drink. 

Henry was quicker. Grabbed the bottle right away and leaned out of the tub enough not to let Capon anywhere near it. Anna’s gaze shifted to the side again—tried not to smirk—and then the girl promptly left, leaving the tent’s flap open enough to let some sun in. She didn’t want them to freeze, after all. 

“Oh, give over!” Hans shouted, eyebrows furrowed. “Give me that!”

“No, no!” Henry said, voice bright and overconfident. “You’ve had enough, my lord!”

“Pfft,” Hans blew a raspberry,  crossing his cold arms across his equally cold chest. “And who are you to command that?”

“Your escort, sir,” Henry grinned like a wolf. “Tasked with keeping you safe and sound! Sometimes that means… Making difficult decisions,” he finished, taking a big swig out of the bottle.  

“Oh, you f-” Hans reached for the bottle, but Henry raised his arm up, and then away enough, leaning out of the tub, that Capon would not be able to reach it. 

“Nah-ah!”

“Henry!”

“Well, apologies, but-” Henry had to stop himself from giggling as Hans pawed at his shoulder and forearm to try and get the bottle. “No!”

“I climbed that fucking tree,” the young lord said, “I can climb you as well, you beast.”

He pushed against Henry and placed his free hand firmly on his shoulder—supporting himself to reach for the bottle with the other hand, and lifting himself out of the cold water. 

Henry scrambled to somehow keep it out of his reach, still, giggling. 

In a surprisingly sharp and quick movement, Hans’ hand found purchase against Henry’s shoulder blade, this time, and turned him around: pressing him against the edge of the tub, chest digging into the wood. 

He pressed himself tightly against Henry’s back—pushing the air out of his lungs and any coherent thought out of his mind—and used the moment of hesitation when Henry froze, flustered, to reach for the bottle. Henry’s fingers were curled tight around its neck. 

“Let it go,” Hans said, half-whisper, half-command, right into his ear. “Right now, Henry.”

Henry stalled, hand clutching the beer as if his life depended on it. 

Hans pressed harder—his head slightly spinning from the booze and the rays of the sun falling into the tent—chest against Henry’s scarred back. 

“Let. It. Go.” He let out, voice much lower than either of them expected. “I am still your lord, Henry.”

He felt Henry’s muscles tense against him; a shiver, brief but intense. He would blame it on the coldness of the water, later on. 

“You will obey me,” he added. Henry felt Hans’ stomach, taut, press against his lower back.

Felt his cock press, undeniably and damningly, against Henry’s arse. 

Silence fell for a moment as Henry remained still; held his breath, even, as if afraid it was all a dream that could dissipate any second. 

Capon clenched his fingers around Henry’s harder—and then Henry shifted, quick, and immediately let go of the bottle, letting Hans take it. 

“See?” Hans laughed, light-hearted and unbothered, as he returned to his end of the tub, relaxing. “Was that all that hard, Henry?”

Henry rolled his eyes, hoping it wasn’t visible: how red he was. How bothered he was.

How— well, fuck— eager he was. 

“Don’t drink all of it, though,” he said, sourly. The water was, suddenly, not cold enough.

“Oh, I told you I want to get you drunk tonight,” Hans laughed, drinking half of the bottle in one go. “And a nobleman’s worth only as much as his word.”

Henry sighed, trying to pretend his heart wasn’t beating so hard he could feel his teeth rattle. 

The sun started setting: the heat dissipated suddenly and abruptly, in a way that took them both by surprise, still sitting in that tub.

Laughing and shivering, they scrambled out of it: leaning against each other and supporting each other, and giggling at each other, and lingering way too long where they should have let go. 

Then, clothes thrown over wet, cold skin, they hooked their arms over each other’s shoulders—more beer in them, given Anna sneaked them two other bottles once Margaret wasn’t looking—and, swaying, got back into the Den. 

They passed Janosh, drunkenly slurring some tale about the best soup he had ever made—Adder, asleep, with his head in the man’s lap, drooling onto the loose fabric on his thighs—and Dry Devil, clearly contemplating how to cut Brabant’s head off without making too much of a mess and still getting a recipe out of the conversation. 

Perhaps they planned to, initially, return to the tables: have more beer, sing more songs, tell more tales. Play dice! Talk of wenches and horses and military plans. 

Somehow, however, their legs led them upstairs, towards the privacy of their shared room.

“I’m so fucking cold,” Hans whined, suddenly, as they opened the doors. “How did the weather turn so abruptly?”

“Well,” Henry replied, easing his drunk lord onto his bed. “Again, Hans, you’re sunburnt. It’s not the weather.”

“Nobles don’t get,” Capon hiccuped. “Nobles don’t get sunburnt.”

“No?” Henry laughed. Then, he pressed his fingers into Hans’ neck, making him hiss. “No?”

“Alright, uh,” the young lord sighed, leaning back on his outstretched arms. His shirt, half-wet and half-transparent, clung to his chest. “Maybe a little bit.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Henry said, picking up all the bits of armour and clothing he left strewn about the room the night before. “It’s not like you got sunburnt working in the fields, my lord.”

“No, I got sunburnt,” Hans said, sighing, “climbing trees and wrestling for beer.”

“And wasn’t it fun?” Henry grinned. He quickly grabbed his pouch and pushed the contents in—the dark, rich fabric standing out like sin—and threw it to the side. 

“Fun,” Capon rolled his eyes. “Fun…”

“Well, wasn’t it?”

“It was, you beast, stop pestering me!” Hans giggled, then hissed in pain. “God Almighty, my neck burns as if someone pushed me into a field full of nettles.”

“Be glad your forehead isn’t as burned.”

“Oh, aye, I am so, so glad,” Hans snickered, kicking off his shoes. “And my back, fuck. Anna shouldn’t have left that tent’s entrance open.”

“I do agree, it is her fault the sun was shining.”

“Oh, hush,” Hans stood up for a second, trying to wriggle out of his hose. “God, the wet fabric fucking- Fucking sticks like a bitch.”

“Let me help,” Henry said, stumbling towards him. “Let me be your chambermaid again,” he added, in a sudden fit of giggling. 

Hans groaned—but did not object. 

Henry half-leaned, half-knelt in front of him: focusing, hard, on peeling off the wet hose of his lord’s thighs and calves. The hose did smell, faintly, like meadowsweet.

But it mostly smelled like Hans. It went to Henry’s head worse than the beer and the heat of the summer’s day. 

“There you go,” he said, voice wavering; threw the hose at the chair in the corner.

“Thanks, Henry,” Hans replied, yawning. There was no mockery or pretense in his voice; no appearances to be kept up or lies to tell. He sat back on the bed. 

Through the open window, the evening song of birds got into the room. The air smelled like smoke and dew, and the promise of something wild and free. 

“There’s, well,” Henry said, scratching his neck, standing in the middle of the room. “There’s something that could help with the sunburn, Hans.”

“Oh?” The young lord, sat on his bed in just his braies, looked up at him. His blue eyes: pupils blown, slightly hazy from drink and exhaustion. 

“You won’t like it, though.”

“Is it… Like, some spell?” Hans asked. 

“No, no,” Henry stopped himself from laughing. “It’s milk.”

“Milk?”

“Soured milk, to be exact.”

“ What?”

“Aye, soured milk. Trust me, Hans, it works wonders. And! There is some downstairs, I checked.”

“Treadlight’s long asleep.”

“Who cares. I’ll just take it.”

Hans eyed him, eyes narrowed. Then, he clicked his tongue. 

“And you’re sure it’ll help?”

“Yes.”

“Mhm.”

“If not, you can have me flogged in the town’s market square.”

Hans giggled, hiccuping again.

“Well, go get it, then!”

Henry stumbled back into the room, trying not to giggle. He was way too drunk for Hans’ good. 

“There’s more than I thought,” he said, voice hushed, gesturing with the crock pot he brought. “It’d be enough for two Capons, I think.”

“Henry,” Hans rolled his eyes, laughing. “Luckily, you’ve got only one of me to worry about.”

Stop pestering him, echoed out somewhere in Hans’ mind. Immediately, it quieted: the warmth of booze coursing through his veins and the way Henry grinned, looking at him, cheeks slightly flushed, putting an end to it. There was no worry in the whole world that Henry couldn't dispel. 

“Alright, brace, Hans, it’ll be cold!”

“Your hands are warm enough, I reckon.”

Henry poured out the soured milk onto his palm—the temperature and texture sending an unwilling wince down his spine—and hovered over Hans’ back. Then, slowly and tenderly, he spread the first smear across his sunburnt neck.

Hans hissed—first in pain, then in relief. 

“Oh, shit, what?” He giggled to himself, quietly. “That does work, actually.”

“Would I lie to you, my lord?” Henry asked, contrarian and smirking, as he kept spreading the cold, curdled milk skin over Hans’ back. “I am, after all, nothing if not truthful.”

“Mhm,” sounded out, a relaxed purr more than anything else.

“And obedient!” He added, pushing his luck.

“Mhm, I should hope so.”

Silence fell, again: interrupted only by the grasshoppers outside and sparse heavier breaths escaping Hans’ mouth. 

Funny, Hans thought, looking down at his braies becoming slightly tighter than they were before under the charm of Henry’s skilled, rough and tender hands. Can’t imagine having the same effect, back when I massaged his back.

Then, he remembered how quickly Henry ran out of that Nebakov shed. Seemingly for no reason. Unless…

A realisation started forming in his hazy mind—thrilling, and ground-breaking… And then, cut short! As Henry, flustered, dropped the pot of milk right onto Hans’ bed. 

“Fuck and shit, Hans, sorry!” He said, quickly, scrambling to scoop up the fluid as if that had any hope of working, “Fuck, God, sorry!”

“That’s alright,” Hans giggled, shivers running down his spine as if lighting from the very heavens struck him. “You’re sure you don’t have fleas, eh?’

Henry looked at him: eyes wide, hopeful, confused. Hans felt dizzy.

“Yes?”

“Well, then, problem solved,” Hans grinned, standing up, happy his cock was only half-hard and not all that visible through the puffed up fabric of his braies.

Then, he moved towards Henry’s bed.

“I think you should lie down first,” he commanded, gesturing at the bed. “Given I have to figure out a way to lie down without smearing all that silly buttermilk everywhere.”

The way Henry looked at him… He hoped he could have some Prague master right there, brush and palette in hand, just to paint it. 

“Hans…”

“Well, lie down!” He laughed, heart so light it could float away like bubbles in beer and magpies in the scorching, summer skies. “And put out that candle, will you?”

And so, Henry did—a shivering exhale against the flame, and swaying steps towards the bed. He lied down, on his stomach, trying not to look up at his lord. Trying to, somehow, make room on that narrow bed, too.

“Stop worrying,” Hans whispered, grinning in the dark. “I’ll fit, right there, between you and the wall.”

“Aye,” Henry replied, voice raspy and slightly faltering. 

Not so gracefully, Hans crawled over Henry—the skin on his back hot to touch like a furnace, worse than his sunburn— and settled, mindful of the layer covering his back and neck, in the gap. 

God Almighty, was all that he could think, smile on his lips.

Throughout his whole life, waking up early—with the sole exception of waking up to hunt—was, most definitely, at dire odds with everything Sir Hans Capon stood for. 

But not that night, no: that night, in the narrow space between the wooden wall and Henry’s back, Hans hardly slept at all. Listened to Henry’s breathing—steadying after their initial frantic rhythm— and his half-snores, and then, the sound of the forest beyond the window waking up.

Soaking in, greedily, any second of bliss of skin against skin. 

Slept an hour, maybe two. 

Woke up, trying not to giggle: trying not to kiss the back of Henry's neck.

Chapter Text

To make a graceful act of revenge,

and punish a thousand wrongs in a single day,

Love secretly took up his bow again,

like a man who waits the time and place to strike.

My power was constricted in my heart,

making defence there, and in my eyes,

when the mortal blow descended there,

where all other arrows had been blunted.

So, confused by the first assault,

it had no opportunity or strength

to take up arms when they were needed,

or withdraw me shrewdly to the high,

steep hill, out of the torment,

from which it wishes to save me now but cannot.

Sonnet 2: Per fare una leggiadra sua vendetta . “Il Canzoniere,” Petrarch. 

Henry woke up during that night, once. 

Hans was asleep—snoring the way he always did, which Henry found endearing even though he’d have battered Fritz or Matthew for less—curled up, back to back with Henry, squished against the wall of the room. Hogging the covers, of course; the night was warm but the sunburn must have made him cold.

Henry tried to move a bit more to the side, even though the bed was really narrow: one, to give his lord more space, and two, to hopefully move away from his lord’s bony spine digging into his back. The second he shuffled a bit, freeing up the precious crumb of space between them, Hans made a noise in his sleep: a small sound of opposition, fussy like a child. 

Henry had to bite his lip to make sure he didn’t laugh out loud—then, feeling slightly light-headed, he shuffled back, pressing his back lightly against Hans again. 

They’ve slept next to each other before, when they camped: Hans always finding some reason to bunk down right next to Henry, and call for them to be up on first watch together. But not this close, for one—not skin against skin, bare, sunburnt—and not so… 

Henry exhaled, slowly, feeling a sort of giddy warmth spread slowly through his body; his mind, too.

There was something tender there. Comfortable—unafraid. Certain. 

It felt so good to be able to stop worrying. Stop overthinking. Nothing to prove—nothing to disprove. 

Henry fell back asleep—into a sleep blissfully free from dreams or nightmares—and didn’t even wake up when Hans did, or when his lord tried getting out of the bed without crushing him, clumsily and with little grace or success. He didn’t even wake up when Hans opened the door a bit too loudly, or when he kicked over the stool while gathering the dirty covers and pulling the straw mattress off the bed. 

He only woke up once Hans started his attempts at tidying the space a bit—but not because he was especially loud about it. 

But because he started humming.

The melody waking him up was familiar, definitely: but Henry was still too hazy from sleep to be able to really pinpoint it, or tell what words matching it came to mind. He rubbed his eyes and sprawled on the bed a bit more now that he had the full reign of it; then, he yawned, half because he needed to and half because he wanted to make sure Hans knew he woke up. He didn’t want to embarrass him.

But Hans didn’t stop humming: he just turned his face a bit towards Henry, a shadow of a smile dancing on his lips, and finished putting their—dry already—clothes away. Did a terrible job folding them, as Henry quickly noticed, but it was still much more effort that anyone expected.

“Good morning, Henry!” He said, smiling, standing in the middle of the room with a comb in his hand. “I really did try to be quiet, but everything that could have made a loud sound… Did.”

Henry laughed, slowly sitting up and stretching. 

“Morning, Hans,” he said, muffling another yawn. “No worries, I actually slept like a babe. Can’t remember the last time I slept through the whole night like that.”

It wasn’t entirely true—but it wasn’t a lie, either, and Henry really wanted to start the day with telling Hans something nice. 

“I slept well as well, even despite the sunburn!” He replied, combing his hair, still in the middle of their room. “And despite the fact that you kick in your sleep like a mule,” he added, giggling. 

Who would have thought, Henry wondered to himself while looking at his lord, that he’s such a giggly man. 

“And you snore like an old man, my lord,” Henry countered, nodding his head solemnly.

Capon made a funny noise, somewhere between a snort and a giggle.

“Slept with many old men, Henry?” He teased. 

Giggly and mean. 

“Dozen of them, at least,” Henry replied, getting up; fighting the urge to scratch his face and arms and stomach. “And all at once, too.”

Hans’ raised his eyebrows.

“Not sure this joke reflects all that well on you, truth be told,” he said, voice hesitant, watching Henry approaching him with narrowed eyes. “I wouldn’t, uh, risk saying it in polite company.”

“How so, my lord?” Henry’s face lit up with a sly smirk. 

“Well,” he gestured vaguely with the comb. “You know…”

“Well,” Henry parroted, reaching for his badly folded shirt. “I don’t know what sort of filth my lord has in his noble mind, but I am speaking about the monastery.”

Hans’ face changed shade: from slightly pink with sunburn to crimson red. 

“Obviously I knew that,” he managed to get out. 

Henry basked in the glow of the blush on Hans’ face for a sweet, prolonged moment—then, decided to mercifully spare his lord any further changes of hue. 

“How’s the sunburn?” He asked, changing the subject.

“Odd,” Hans replied, putting the comb away onto the table. It was the first time Henry saw it—recalled many times only seeing Hans use his fingers to get his hair in order—but decided not to comment.

For now. 

“Odd?”

“Not exactly a sensation I’m used to,” Hans shrugged; winced as his shirt scratched against the sensitive skin. “Washing off the remnants of sour milk stung like a bitch.”

“You should have woken me up, Hans,” Henry said, tying up his hose and putting on his shoes. “I would have helped.”

He was so preoccupied with his shoes that he did not see Hans’ face light up with a little surprised smile. 

“Well, you helped plenty last night,” the young lord replied instead, gesturing at the dirty covers and straw mattress he pulled off the bed. “Now I need to go tell Treadlight that I need a new mattress. Last thing I want to do is speak to that slimy man, but no way I’m sleeping on the floor.”

“I can let you have my bed, I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”

“Henry, in what world would a reasonable noble let his personal bodyguard sleep on the floor?”

Plenty of them would, Henry thought.

“I don’t mind,” he said instead, shrugging. 

He did mind, truth be told—but he offered anyway. Somewhat out of habit and somewhat in hope that, for some impossible reason, Hans would offer they could just sleep in one bed again. 

“Henry, even Mutt doesn’t sleep on the floor,” Hans added, putting his hands on his hips and assessing the mattress. “What would one… Even do with this?”

“With what?”

“The-” he gestured vaguely. “The mattress. The milk seeped into it and in this heat… Eugh.”

“Cut open the seams,” Henry assessed it as well. “Get all that soiled straw out, put new straw in after washing. Sew it back up.”

“Mhm, that makes sense,” Hans replied, reaching for his dagger hanging from the belt thrown over the chair. 

“Not here!” Henry laughed. “You’d just get straw everywhere. I’ll take it outside, we’ll gut it there.”

Henry grabbed the mattress and hauled it to the door of their room, shaking his head. 

“It’s not all that obvious, Henry,” Hans huffed, crossing his arms and following him to open the door. 

“Isn’t it?”

“Well no,” Hans sighed, doors opening with a loud creak. “The mattresses in Pirkstein are filled with feathers, it’s not like you can just gut them like this.”

“Aye,” Henry dragged the mattress out. “The top one is feathers. The bottom one is straw. There’s two.”

They were so distracted by their conversation that neither of them paid attention that downstairs, right below them, Dry Devil and Adder were standing: arms crossed, looking up. Listening in. 

“Bottom?” Hans furrowed his brows, closing the door of their room and joining Henry on the wooden terrace. “How do you know?”

“You’re so surprised that I would know? As if we didn’t sleep together in your bedroom at Pirkstein.”

“Technically not my bedroom, I gave mine to Radzig,” Hans gestured vaguely. “But yes, alright, you’re right.”

“I tend to be!” Henry huffed. “You say it’s not obvious, but these are such simple concepts, sir Hans.”

“For a peasant, maybe!”

“A peasant would have no need to know which one is the bottom and which one is the top,” Henry groaned, slightly frustrated. “It’s a noble problem to have to begin with.”

“Oh, come off it,” Hans rolled his eyes. “Let me just say that I am grateful, then, to have you teach me all about these simple and obvious concepts.”

“Aye.”

“And so patiently.”

“Mhm.”

“And let’s put that matter behind us, and focus on the task at hand, alright, Henry?”

“As your lordship commands!”

“Henry, I’m going to kick you in the arse if you don’t stop!”

“Alright, alright,” Henry laughed, raising his arms defensively. “Hm… I’m not carrying this all the way downstairs,” he muttered to himself. 

Then, an idea sprouted up: Henry leaned over the wooden balustrade to assess how feasible it would be to just throw the mattress down. 

It was very feasible—and much quicker—but he got a bit distracted by the sudden realisation that Dry Devil and Adder were standing below. They must have made up, given neither of them was running or shooting a crossbow. 

For some reason, however—and Henry could not decipher what it could be—Dry Devil was looking up with a rather confused and resigned expression, while Adder’s face was lit up in unprecedented joy. 

“What the fuck are the two of ye doing?” Dry Devil asked, ignoring Adder’s absolute glee. 

Henry threw the mattress down, and it landed with a soft thud in front of the two men, raising a cloud of dust. 

“We are gutting a mattress, Sir Hynek!” Hans exclaimed joyfully—and loudly—still clinging to the titles everyone told him to stop clinging to. 

“And… Why the fuck are ye doing that?”

“We had a little spill last night!” Hans’ voice was bright and positive, and again, quite loud. 

Adder’s mouth opened in the most pleased disbelief; it was nearly visible how all the cogs in his head were turning. He had to physically stop himself from saying anything; one, on account of being within Dry Devil’s striking distance, and two, without Janosh to understand and translate, none of the things he wanted to say were even half as funny. 

Neither Hans nor Henry picked up on it.

“A spill?” Dry Devil asked, resigned, looking down at the mattress. 

“Aye!” Hans yelled down, joyfully, leaning over the railing. “Happens to the best of men.”

Adder, holding his breath, was running out of air. He nearly swayed on his feet—either due to the lack of air in his lungs or the sudden need to piss himself. He was shaking with the need to say something—but, bravely, did not. 

A moment later, Henry and Hans joined them downstairs; the sun was less relentless than the day before, luckily, but the day was already hot. 

“Well, truth be told, the spill was Henry’s fault,” Hans felt the need to clarify as he stood over Henry cutting the seams open. 

“For your benefit,” Henry muttered. Focused hard enough on the mattress not to even hear Adder wheeze. 

“Not like I asked for it,” Capon shrugged. “But it was very nice and very appreciated, so don’t think I’m chastising you! Even though it is my mattress that suffered.”

Dry Devil just shook his head; then, looked to the side at Adder, red in the face. 

“Right…” He said, his rough voice suddenly a bit less resigned. “And would ye say that cleaning this is… Hmm…”

Henry looked up, halfway through pulling out the dirty straw. 

“A pain in the arse?” Dry Devil finished, dryly—looking at them with an entirely stoic and unmoved expression, if not for the sparks in his eyes. 

Adder burst out in laughter, grabbing Dry Devil’s arm so hard his knuckles turned white. 

“Ooo, uduszę się,” he managed to cough out. “Kurwa, uduszę się…”

“What’s wrong with him?” Hans asked, crossing his arms. 

“Hay fever,” Dry Devil quickly replied, swallowing down his own laughter. “Move away from that straw, ye stupid fucker,” he added, turning to Adder—who only nodded, wheezing. 

“What going on, he choke again?” sounded out in Janosh’s voice as the man exited the tavern and joined them outside. “I tell him all the time-”

Adder cut him off, gesturing furiously in protest, laughing—then, he quickly walked up to him and hooking an arm over his shoulder, started whispering something in his ear. He had to take a couple of breaks, too, as he kept cracking up.

Luckily, Hans and Henry decided to switch their attention to the mattress at that point, simply assuming the Pole, as always, was sort of out of his mind. 

“I’ll take it to the girls to launder,” Henry said, gathering the dirty covers and fabric of the mattress. “Treadlight won’t even have to know.”

“Seems like everyone will know, in a moment,” Hans replied, sourly, looking at Janosh hiding his face in his hands; his shoulders were shaking in laughter. “I really don’t know what’s so funny about any of this.”

Henry shrugged. 

“They’re probably drunk already, pay them no mind,” he said.

“Well, it’s not even noon yet…” Hans clicked his tongue. “No matter! Join me once you take care of it! I’ll be having some breakfast, and you should too.”

“Aye, sir Hans.”

“And please tell the girls good morning from me, and wish them a pleasant day!”

“Aye.”

“And ask Anna if she got that wine stain out, will you?”

“Aye… Anything else I can do for you, noble sir, while I’m there?” Henry asked, shooting Capon a telling look. 

“Don’t push it, Henry!” Hans grinned, hands on his hips again. “I’m pretty sure I’m bruised after a whole night of that tossing and turning of yours, so you should be eager, actually, to make it up to me!”

Henry didn’t reply: just smiled to himself as he walked to the baths, shaking his head.

“Adder, you say nothing, please,” Janosh said, wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes. “Please.”

Hans waited, sitting outside in the shade: some bread and cheese on the table in front of him. He was starving, truth be told—but he wanted to wait for Henry.

Henry, who hadn’t returned from the baths for a little bit too long for his liking. 

Perhaps he would have even gotten up, sour, and gone there himself—see whether Henry wasn’t busy with anything other than laundry while he had to wait— but a far away sound of hooves gave him pause. As he raised his head, shielding his eyes from the sun, he recognised the mare, first, Bibianna; then, it became clear the bald head glistening in the sun belonged to Father Godwin.

“Father!” He exclaimed joyfully, waving at the man. “Were you running from some raid that you lost your hat?”

“Sir Hans,” Godwin groaned as he got down from the saddle; walked over to him, wiping the sweat from his brow. “God has a sense of humour, it seems, and currently he’s laughing at me in particular.”

“Why is that? Come sit down and tell me.”

“My throat is terribly-”

“Yes, yes, there’s beer as well, father,” Hans grinned, gesturing at the seat across him. “And food, if you want some.”

“A man of cloth and a nobleman breaking fast like peasants,” Godwin laughed, sitting down. “They do say the world is ending, perhaps that is one of the signs.”

“Do they really say the world is ending?” Hans asked, raising his eyebrows in worry. He felt his heart beat a little bit faster in anxiety. “Where?”

“Oh, well, don’t they say that all the time?” Godwin rushed to ease his mind. “I said that in jest,” he added, washing down the bread with a big swig of beer. 

“Doesn’t seem like a jesting matter…”

“But, speaking of jest,” Godwin tore off a bit of bread and shook his head. “I committed a sin and God took it upon himself to immediately punish me for it.”

“Oh?” Hans asked, chin propped up on his hand. He didn’t like the mention of the world possibly ending—but he also didn’t like the realisation that he did, indeed, start eating breakfast. Like a peasant. Hanush would have his hide for it, if he knew. 

“I was escorting Katherine closer to Sigismund’s camp,” Godwin said, chewing, “while Zizka and Kubyenka rode to meet Sokol’s people to let them know what had happened at Raborsch and Kuttenberg.”

“Mhm?”

“Oh, speaking of, where’s Henry? Did Henry get back?”

“Yes, he’s, uhm,” Hans cleared his throat. “At the baths.”

“Of course he is,” Godwin chuckled to himself. “He’s lucky to have a priest for a friend, that boy, with his sinning. I pray for his soul every day.”

Hans clenched his jaw; decided not to say anything, even though he really wanted to remind Godwin he wasn’t all that much of a priest anymore. 

“Well, hopefully someone out there prays for mine,” the man finished, swallowing down his beer. “God knows I need it. Well! On my way back, I noticed something shiny in the grass… A brooch it was, and a fine one, even if small and a bit broken.”

“Did you find it at the crossroads?” Hans asked, immediately, feeling his heart speed up unpleasantly again. He knew tales of such objects—and they were all grim. 

“Sir Hans, please… It was just a shiny bauble, nothing more.”

“Alright, father, if you say so.”

Or it belonged to the devil and now he’s tricked you, he thought. Although, being a man of cloth and all, perhaps he’s immune…

“And I pinned it to my hat, silly old man that I am,” Godwin shrugged. “God punished me for that sin immediately, as the second I nodded off in the nice shade by the road, a magpie flew and stole it.”

“The brooch?”

“The whole hat,” Godwin gestured at his bare head. “Flew off with it, fat bastard. Haven’t seen a magpie that big since I was a boy.”

“During King Ottokar’s reign, eh?” Hans joked; looked to the side to check whether Henry was coming back. Henry would laugh.

If he knew who King Ottokar was, actually. 

Do peasants know such things? Hans scratched his head. Surely they know the current king and the one right before him, but farther back-

“Luckily it wasn’t very far from here,” Godwin added. “Maybe Henry will find it.”

Hans furrowed his brows.

Henry this, Henry that. 

“Why Henry?”

“He’s always shooting down the nests and finding the strangest things, really. In Uzhitz, he-”

Hans hated listening to Uzhitz stories. Hated hearing about Henry’s stupid adventures without him—back when he sat at Pirkstein, bored to death, or worse, had to lie in bed recovering from the fucking Cuman thing. Alone. And bored.

Without Henry.

Capon wanted to interrupt Godwin by saying something unnecessarily mean—when he spotted Henry, walking back from the baths. His hair was slightly wet—Hans noticed it immediately—and so was his shirt. As if he got splashed with water. 

As if anyone else had any right to splash Henry with water. 

“Father Godwin!” He exclaimed and his face lit up. “I was wondering where you’ve gone!”

“Very happy to see you back in one piece,” Godwin said, standing up and embracing Henry. “Kubyenka told us what happened at the Jewish Quarter… Are you alright?”

Of course he is, Hans thought, playing with his bread. He’s with me.  

“I am,” Henry replied, and there was sudden sadness in his voice; one that Hans did not expect and did not hear in quite some time.

“How’s Samuel?”

Oh, sure.

Let’s talk about Samuel now.

“He’s in Kolin… He’ll join us once he makes sure his people are safe.”

“As safe as his people can ever be,” Godwin shook his head solemnly. “But I’m glad to hear he’ll join us, he seemed like a bright and brave young man.”

“That he is,” Henry nodded.

Ugh.

Suddenly, both Godwin and Henry looked at him; Hans felt awkward. He did not realise that he groaned out loud. 

“This, uh,” he cleared his throat. “This bread is stale. Horrible.”

“Of course, for your noble mouth,” Henry rolled his eyes. It seemed he wanted to add something but a telling glance from Godwin made him stop. 

“Did Samuel and you have a chance to talk some more?” The priest asked, gesturing at Henry to sit down. 

“A little bit,” Henry replied. “I got to talk to Sam’s mother, too.”

Sam. 

So fucking familiar, so quickly. Of course. 

“Did you get to talk to Christopher more? We left Raborsch so fast.”

“I did…” Godwin looked at Hans suddenly. Thought about something for a second. “I need to go unsaddle Bibianna, we’ll talk later, what do you say, Henry? I’ll let you eat in peace for now.”

“Sure, Godwin.”

As the priest left towards the stables, Hans started mulling over what he should say next. The only things coming to his mind were mean: about the baths and about Samuel, and about Uzhitz, too, probably. He wanted to bring up the fact that he’s stooping below his rank to eat breakfast, and to eat it with Henry—make sure he’s even aware of it. Then, he thought about just getting up and leaving, maybe. See whether Henry would even give a-

Underneath the table, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Henry rested his leg against Hans. Casually, not turning his attention away from the bread he was wolfing down as if he hadn't had anything to eat in days. 

Any budding cruelty in Hans’ mind disappeared in a blink of an eye. 

“Omf coummrph hdrnnk allhhloulbr,” Henry said, shaking his head, his mouth full.

“God Almighty, Henry,” Hans groaned. “You’re either speaking in tongues or you’re keen on making me teach you proper table etiquette like you’re a child.”

Henry looked at him, bright eyes narrowed. Swallowed.

“Of course he drank all the beer,” Henry said, enunciating very slowly and clearly. “My lord.”

“I can bring you more,” Hans offered.

You need to make up your mind, sounded out in Hans’ mind. Either you’re debasing yourself just to eat with him or you’re willing to fetch his beer for him. 

Can’t have both.

“Did Godwin tell you when Zizka’s coming back?”

“No, he just arrived,” Hans replied, feeling suddenly embarrassed. For Henry, it must have looked like he didn’t know anything—like he was just some useless noble fool, not even taken into consideration for any of the plans that were being made. Just like back home, with his uncle treating him like a child. Useless. 

Suddenly, the bread really did start tasting bitter. 

They did tell you, before, but you weren’t listening, he berated himself. Blamed it on Brabant, too. 

Maybe they were right, the lot of them. Maybe he was useless.

“Mhm,” Henry swallowed the last of his food. “Let me know once he tells you.”

“If he tells me,” Hans muttered.

“Of course he will,” Henry replied, confused. “They won’t make any further plans without your expertise, Hans. You and Dry Devil and Zizka, you’re the nobles here. You call the shots.”

Hans didn’t know what to say; he wasn’t sure what to do with the quiet gratitude that sprouted up in his heart again, looking at Henry. 

“I need to ask…” Henry started, looking Hans in the eyes.

“Yes?” Hans made sure to steady his breathing. 

“Do you plan on eating that?” Henry gestured with his head at the food in front of Hans. “Or…”

“You can have it,” Capon replied, scrunching his nose in something between frustration and laughter. “Jesus, Henry.”

“What?” Henry grinned, reaching for the cheese. “You shouldn’t even be having any breakfast to begin with,” he laughed in between the bites. 

“See?” Hans crossed his arms, smiling victoriously. “You can’t make any further jabs at me being a noble. Here I am, not only eating breakfast, but eating the same simple food as you are.”

“And not keeling over!” Henry exclaimed. “Truly, Sir Hans, you defy all the laws of God and nature.”

“Not sure if that’s a good thing.”

“Of course it is,” Henry grinned again, bumping his knee into Hans’. “We can conquer the world, you and I, with how lucky and exceptional we are!”

“Pity the world!”

“Look, Sir Hans,” he gestured at Hans’ food that he nearly finished. “We are in perfect harmony in every aspect, even food.”

“Truly a match made in Heaven,” Hans giggled. 

“Aye!” Henry swallowed the final bit of bread. “I can teach you all about the matters of us, poor toiling turnip-eating commoners, and you can teach me all about that tickette you so like.”

“What?”

“Table manners?”

“Etiquette, you ignoramus.”

“Hon, hon,” Henry laughed. “You spend too much time with Brabant, I see.”

Hans rolled his eyes, trying not to laugh. He heard Godwin, somewhere in the background—felt a bit of doubt and bile rise up in his throat again.

“Henry…” He started, voice faltering a little. Henry looked up at him immediately. “I realise I haven’t… I haven’t asked about Kuttenberg. Not really.”

“Why it took me three long days to return to your side?” Henry smirked, knees bumping again. 

“No, I mean…” Hans inhaled slowly. “I mean what happened with Samuel, and Sigismund’s forces.”

Henry nodded. Scratched his neck. 

“I don’t know. Maybe I was glad you didn’t ask.”

“Why?”

“It’s an ugly subject. It’s…” Henry grimaced. “Unpleasant.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Capon said, softly. “God knows I don’t want to talk about Maleshov, and it was a banquet compared to what you’ve been through.”

“I might want to talk about it at some point,” Henry looked up at the sky. “But not today. The day is too beautiful, you know?”

“Aye,” Hans smiled.

“Still, thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for. I’m glad you came back alright. I-” Hans stood up, slowly, waiting for Henry to follow. “I didn’t ask for many reasons, but not because I didn’t care.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“I prayed for you, you know? I prayed to our Lady the Protector each day, so that you’d return safely.” 

Hans was surprised at the tenderness in his own voice. 

Henry wasn’t. 

“It’s good she heard my pleas,” he finished, standing a pace away from Henry, unsure what to do with his hands. 

“Thank you,” Henry repeated, smiling widely.

Hans couldn’t help but look at Henry, and his gaze lingered on his face: on the stubble more prominent than he’d ever seen so far, blue eyes bright and unburdened, somehow, and all the recent scratches and bruises healed; the scars less stark the moment sun truly touched his skin and turned it slightly golden brown. 

Every time that he prayed for him—lying awake at the break of dawn at the Den, or back at Maleshov, shaking and nauseous from pain and worry—he imagined that face, inches away from him. His cheek beneath Hans’ palm. 

He went back, in his mind, to that waterfall by Trosky: the cold of the water and the sting of the smoke, and the overwhelming sweetness of the mead, and the way he brushed off the blood off his face with trembling hands. 

God, if only he had courage enough to kiss him back then. He could blame it all on the melancholy, later on, and the mead, and being shaken after the gallows, and anything else.

He should have risked it back then.

He couldn’t risk it now—too much was at stake. So much depended on Henry: it would be catastrophic if he did something stupid and drove him away. And it would kill him, too—he couldn’t lose his only friend, just because he had to be greedy and disgusting and selfish. 

He couldn’t risk losing him now—especially with the impending doom of his fate being decided for him looming over him like the executioner’s sword. 

If he was to even survive that wedding alone, he needed Henry by his side. 

Oh, no. God. 

He suddenly felt faint; the sun hit his face with twofold force, even though he barely noticed it before.

Does he know?

“Henry,” he said, and it came out weak; weak enough to make Henry’s eyes widen in sudden worry. “Back at Raborsch, have you…”

No.

Not now. 

You’re such a bitch. 

“Have I what?” Henry asked, confusion and worry in his voice. He took a step closer to Hans.

Godwin could have told him.

And he wouldn’t have mentioned it? Don’t be ridiculous.

He doesn’t know. 

“I was just wondering if you’ve, uh,” he couldn’t really catch his breath suddenly. “Did Godwin, uh, before we all parted ways-”

He doesn’t know.

Don’t tell him. 

“Are you alright?” Henry was suddenly right in front of him, his hand on his arm, right above the elbow. 

You’re so pathetic. 

“Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “I meant to ask, did you get to meet Godwin’s brother? Christopher, it is, right?”

“Aye,” Henry nodded slowly. His hand lingered for a moment; then, he let go. “I didn’t get to talk to him, he was pretty battered after the assault.”

“Right, yes,” Hans inhaled, deeply. “And, well, you were busy talking to that Jewish boy, I reckon.”

Henry grimaced slightly. 

“Samuel,” he corrected him, taking a step back. 

“Yes, yes,” Hans shrugged. “Ah, no matter. How did it go at the baths? Will the girls be able to launder the things you brought?”

“Uhm, yes,” Henry was still slightly confused and taken aback; not sure what came over his lord for that strange moment. “In this sun, it should all be dry by evening.”

“Good!” Hans exclaimed, stretching even though he didn’t really have to. “Can’t wait to have proper space for myself again.”

Henry just chuckled, faintly, but it was a bitter and awkward sort of laughter. 

“Ugh, now I can feel that my back actually hurts,” Capon added. “If you need me, I’ll be at the baths, I hope one of the girls will be able to massage it out a bit.”

He smiled at Henry, as casually and joyfully as he could—aware of the horrid cruelty of it—and walked towards the baths. 

Didn’t turn back around, even though he felt Henry’s gaze on his back.

Henry gathered their plates and jugs from the table to bring them back inside, into the kitchen—they were already on thin ice with the woman Treadlight hired to work there as the maid after their multiple drunken evenings, and the last thing he wanted was to test her patience in any way. 

Walking into the Den, enveloped by the shade and coolness that still reigned inside, he just sighed. It was a very loud and deep sigh; unbearably familiar to the way Mutt would sigh, sometimes.

With a slight difference: Mutt had no reason to sigh like that.

Henry did. 

He’s so fucking frustrating, he thought, putting the plates away. This time there isn’t even a shadow of my fault there. I didn’t do or say anything.

At that point, Henry could pinpoint the exact moment Hans would suddenly retreat into his own mind: the shadow that would go over his bright eyes, out of the blue, and the way his lips would downturn slightly, before being brought back, forcefully, into neutrality. Or worse: a smile. 

Why should it always be me, getting the cane for no reason? And then crawling back to him anyway?

Not this time. Not this time! 

Henry shook his head and walked back outside, into the sun. Felt the warmth on his face; heard a far away cackle of a magpie echoing through the forest. He could take Pebbles, and ride out—find a spot to read in peace, or shoot his new crossbow until he learned its rhythm better, or look for wormwood to refill his supplies—and just not give a damn about any of that nonsense. About Capon.

Henry closed his eyes, letting himself truly feel the sun on his face. 

Sighed again. 

Turned towards the baths.

Hans was sitting in his usual spot; this time, however, the wooden bench was much more uncomfortable, somehow, and made his arse hurt. The sun was annoying—making the sunburn sting again—but the shade was too cold. There was a horsefly buzzing somewhere close to him and he honestly felt like getting bitten by it would be the final straw that would make him lose his mind. 

“We have some food, still, if you’d like breakfast?” Anna asked, carrying a basket filled with laundry. 

“Noblemen don’t eat breakfast,” Hans snapped, his voice sour and high-pitched. 

Anna snorted in laughter. 

“Oh no,” she exclaimed, putting the basket on her hip and looking at Capon. “Who was mean to you? Tell me! And I will tell Margaret, and she will kick their arses!”

Hans looked up at her, sighing; feeling really stupid and embarrassed. 

“So, who was mean to you?”

“No one.”

“Come on! Tell me! I will find him and twist his tits until they turn purple like cabbage.”

“Don’t laugh at me,” Hans managed to get out, and it only made him more embarrassed.

“Laughter is the best medicine, Sir Hans,” the girl replied, smiling softly. “Especially for the illness that ails you, in particular.”

“Oh, and you know all about that, eh?” He snapped again, fidgeting with his hands. 

“Tsk, tsk, keep being mean to me and I will kick your arse myself,” Anna furrowed her eyebrows. “Or I’ll make you help me launder this mess! See how your noble self likes that.”

Hans didn’t reply. 

“Although, honestly,” the girl added, inconspicuously looking at the skies above her. “I should make Henry launder it. It’s all his fault, after all, and his mess.”

Hans clenched his jaw; didn’t say anything, still.

“But then again, he’s nothing but trouble, that brute!” She shook her head. “I’m surprised you even put up with him.”

“Brute?!” Hans asked immediately, looking up at her. “I’m very fond of you, Anna, but you have no right to speak about Henry like that, and I must demand you stop.”

She raised her eyebrows slightly.

“Sooo,” she said, sing-song, “it’s not Henry who upset you.”

Hans opened his mouth to say something—but his mind went blank. He shook his head.

“You’re too sly for your own good, you know that?”

“Aye,” Anna giggled. “Goodness, Sir Hans, the only other person whose opinion you care about enough to put you in such a sour mood… Is yourself.”

Hans hid his face in his hands and groaned. 

“It’s a bit silly to be upset at yourself, eh?” She moved the basket to her other hip, sighing slightly with the weight of it. “I reckon both me and Henry are used to nobles lashing out at us for no reason, but it doesn’t mean we don’t feel bad after.”

“I’m sorry, Anna. I really am.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Ugh, Sir Hans, I mean it!”

“So do I,” Hans sighed. “Nothing. I just behaved like a fool again, for no reason at all. I don’t know how he puts up with me.”

“Well,” the corners of Anna’s mouth curled in a small smile. “I know how, but it’s a matter for another day.”

“I think I would actually prefer if you told me now,” he replied, sourly.

“I can’t,” she giggled. “Because I have all of this shit to launder, noble sir, and also Henry is coming.”

Hans nearly jumped up, head turning immediately towards the path leading from the Den: Henry was walking towards them, with a focused look on his face. Anna decided it was her cue to go and take care of the laundry.

Henry walked up to the bench Hans was sitting on: without saying anything, he stood in front of him and just looked at him. Silently. 

Hans hid his face in his hands again, for a brief moment, and groaned. Then, he nodded—sighed—and nodded again.

“Alright,” he said, at last. Henry just kept looking at him. “Alright!”

Throwing his hands up, Hans stood up. Sighed once more—then, put his hand on Henry’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said. Henry, still silent, just nodded. “I don’t, uh, actually need to be here.”

“Mhm,” Henry still just looked at him, focused and serious, but his eyes narrowed very slightly in a fought-off smile. 

“My back doesn’t…” Hans inhaled deeply. “Hurt.”

“Oh, I know,” Henry said, at last. 

“But you’re making me say it anyway?”

“Yes,” Henry grinned. 

You could kiss him right now , rang out in Hans’ head. He quickly took a step back, getting his hand off Henry's shoulder in a rushed motion. 

“You know, when we joked about how we’re in perfect harmony,” he said, looking into Henry’s eyes despite being slightly embarrassed. “I do actually feel that way. It’s as if… Each time I do something to throw us off balance, you’re there to make it alright again. Bring us back to how things should be.”

There it was again: the slight surprise in the depth of Henry’s bright gaze, followed by a smile. 

“I’m glad you think so, Hans,” he said, and his voice was warm. Soft. “And while I am forever grateful for my lord being so humble,” he added, teasing, “and I might regret saying it later… I don’t think you’ve ever thrown us off balance.”

“Well.”

He really is too kind for his own good, Hans thought.

Fuck. For my own good, really.

“Like I told you back at Trosky,” Henry continued as they stood a pace from each other in the shade of the baths. “You’re my closest friend. No amount of silly disagreements can ever change that.”

“I-” Hans swallowed. The only thing coming to his mind were thank you and I’m sorry and do you really mean it and I can’t imagine my life without you. He couldn’t say most of it, but he could at least say something. “Thank you.”

“No need.”

“No, I, really, I mean it, Henry,” he said. “For this, and for everything. For keeping me in check. And sane,” Hans laughed, a bit awkwardly, trying not to get ahead of himself. “Actually… If you find a minute today, there’s something I’d like to show you.”

“We can go now, given your noble back doesn’t actually need any treatment,” Henry smiled.

You shouldn’t have come clean about your back not hurting, you fool, Hans berated himself. If you played it right, maybe you could get him to-

“Or not?” Henry made a funny, confused face. 

“Oh, sorry,” Hans cleared his throat. “Father Godwin wanted to talk to you, I don’t want to take up more of your time,” he said. “Can’t have you all to myself!” He added, finishing the sentence with the most awkward chuckle any man could ever be capable of.

Well fucking done, you utter imbecile. 

“If you keep saying selfless and magnanimous things like this,” Henry laughed, “I’ll start worrying you’re trying to shoot for sainthood.”

“Oh, God, can you imagine?” Capon groaned in feigned disgust. “That must be such a chore, being a saint. All the prayers?”

“Well,” Henry’s smile was wide and contagious. “It would get your name onto the lips of many a maiden, lying awake in their beds at night...”

“Aye, or kneeling,” Hans giggled. 

“You plan on standing here giggling like two village idiots until the end of days?” Margaret’s voice rang out, suddenly, making them both jump up in surprise. “I swear, the only thing the two of you could be the saints of is idleness.”

Hans was ready to say something bordering on an apology—and scurry away—but Henry was quicker. 

“We’re having the first moment of rest in between countless battles and political machinations, I’ll have you know,” Henry said, wagging his finger at the woman. 

Margaret raised her eyebrows slowly, eyes snapping to the finger.

“So what you so rudely call idleness,” he continued, “is a well-deserved rest. Before yet another crucial battle, most likely!”

She’ll kill us, Hans thought, panicked, looking at Henry in shock. 

“Oh, yes, yes,” Margaret rolled her eyes. “The whole kingdom would simply fall apart if not for the two of you! So important.”

“You know I rode here after meeting king Sigismund himself?” Henry asked, wide stance and hands at his hips. 

“Aye, you’ve said that four times today alone, I reckon,” Margaret’s dark brows were raised in a clear expression of not being impressed; she clicked her tongue. “And with that king of yours, did you stand about idly and giggle, too? Or is that reserved only for our birdie here?”

Hans felt his ears burn worse than the sunburn on the back of his neck. 

“Woman!” Henry sighed, shaking his head. “Careful how you talk about my lord!” He wagged his finger again. “He might allow you much freedom from convention on account of being very patient and chivalrous, but you should treat him with respect befitting his rank in my presence!”

She’ll definitely fucking kill us, Hans thought, pained. Looked sneakily—sheepishly—at the woman. Tried not to look at Henry, knowing all too well Margaret would immediately notice the awe in his eyes and point it out as cruelly as she could. 

“He is a noble, as you know,” Henry continued, “and the future lord of Rattay and Polna! Heir to the Lords of Leipa!”

Margaret tilted her head slowly.

“And!” The finger wagging didn’t stop; Henry was clearly under some great wave of divine inspiration. “He is a man of countless virtues! Tested in battle, skilled with sword and word alike! Women desire him and men envy him, and you will not find another warrior so skilled in the whole of Bohemia!”

That’s a bit much , Hans thought; felt, inevitably and unmistakably, blush blooming on his face. 

Margaret, arms crossed, looked at the two of them with resignation. 

“Anything else?” She asked, tone pointed. 

Henry wanted to say something but Hans stopped him, touching his shoulder lightly.

“You know, we can go now,” he whispered. “If you’re sure Godwin can wait… Let’s just go.”

“No, no!” Henry exclaimed. “Margaret! I demand you apologise!”

So in the end, Hans thought, it wasn’t the gallows and it wasn’t the rubble, and it wasn’t a sword or an arrow… I’ll die by a bathwench’s hand. 

And not in a good way.

“Apologise?” She asked, brows furrowed. “You hit your head?”

“Aye, apologise,” Henry crossed his arms, content and with a peaceful smile on his face. 

“Henry, we can just go,” Hans said, looking around to make sure there weren’t any heavy or sharp objects within Margaret’s reach. 

“See, your great and fearsome lord doesn’t require an apology,” she said. “And even if he did, best I can give the two of you is a kick in the arse.”

“You will go to Hell, you know that, right?” Henry asked, suddenly. “And you’ll be boiled in a cauldron by a regiment of devils, like a turnip.”

Margaret just looked at him in complete silence. 

“Like a… Turnip?” She asked, finally.

“Aye.”

Margaret inhaled, slowly; she looked at Capon instead.

“Apologies, Sir Hans,” she said. 

What?

“Oh, uh,” he cleared his throat. “That’s entirely alright.”

“I’m really sorry,” she continued, “that you were foolish enough to choose an imbecile for a squire.”

“Oh.”

Henry opened his mouth, ready to voice his opposition—Margaret waited, eyes narrowed—but Hans quickly grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him away from the baths, despite him thrashing and trying to free himself to wag his finger at the woman some more. 

“I am so, so sorry!” Margaret shouted after them. “God alone knows how sorry I am, Sir Hans!”

Hauling Henry away, towards the Den, he couldn’t help but laugh, exasperated. 

“What was that, Henry?” He asked, once they were at a safe distance from the baths. 

“Apologies, Sir Hans, I felt inspired.”

“Aye, something came over you for sure,” Hans laughed. “We could have gotten killed there, you know that?”

“Well, it would be an honour to die by your side,” Henry said solemnly, trying not to laugh. “And in your service.”

“Pfft, you are a bit insane, eh?” Capon shook his head, hair falling into his eyes; couldn’t stop smiling.

“Aye! Insane for you, Sir Hans!” Henry exclaimed, gesturing widely. Then, he stopped: bright eyes a bit wider and a blush crawling up his neck. “For you, as in, you know, in your service. For you.”

Hans snorted, praying with his whole heart that Henry would assume his own face turning crimson was sunburn and nothing else. 

“Well, the thing you wanted to show me, uh, we can go,” Henry added, quickly. 

“Aye! It’s in our room,” Capon grinned. Realised he really, really liked saying our room.

Once they got upstairs—the shade inside a welcome change from the sun already turning the day hot—he closed the door behind them quietly, went over to the chest by the wall where he kept his things, and inhaled slowly. 

“First, Henry, I want to thank you, again, and before you interrupt me, yes, there is a need,” he said, clasping his hands together and trying his best not to fidget with his own fingers too much. 

“Alright,” Henry leaned back against the table and looked at him; something comfortable and joyful in his gaze. 

“For Maleshov, first,” he said, feeling his throat tighten a bit and his back hurt at the very thought of the horrid, lonesome nights he spent there. “Be it known that if you should ever similarly find yourself in captivity, I swear before our Lord Jesus Christ that I shall come for you as you came for me.”

There was gratitude in Henry’s expression—and something soft that Hans couldn’t allow himself to focus on too much.

“And, secondly!” He continued, feeling his heart beat a little faster, turning to the chest with his things. “I have something for you. A truly knightly reward for your knightly deed.”

“Oh?” Henry pushed himself off the table and walked up to him slowly, immediately overcome with curiosity. 

“It has no equal in the province,” Hans said, pulling out the bow from his chest and unwrapping it from the silk shirt he kept it hidden in. “I hope it’ll help brighten your thoughts after all you’ve been through.”

Henry reached for the weapon; Capon allowed himself a second of a stolen touch as their hands brushed as he passed it to him. Then, he couldn’t help but look at the way Henry turned the bow in his hands: how his gaze focused on it, bright and sharp, and how his palms dragged against the wood, testing how it felt. 

“It can fell the mightiest buck deer and enchant many a doe!” 

Hans could feel himself start to babble, but he couldn’t help it. Henry’s slightly scarred palm on the curve of the bow, slow and steady and curious, made his breathing speed up against his will. 

“And, besides, it has attached to it an enlightening history,” he added, clearing his throat. 

Henry looked up from the bow slowly; his eyes found Hans’ immediately, and there was a very slight slant to his mouth that signalled he could tell something interesting was coming. 

“Oh?” He asked. “Please enlighten me, noble sir,” he added, laughter in the corner of his eyes.

“According to legend,” Hans began, trying his best not to let his gaze linger on the way Henry’s thumb caressed the ridge of the arrow rest absent-mindedly. “This bow belonged by right to Margrave Jobst of Moravia, who, however, was not worthy of it, and so, fate decreed that it fell into the hands of a proper knight.”

“What are you saying..?”

“Well, when I found out that Jobst would gladly leave me locked up, it got my blood up!” Hans grinned. “So, to pay him back, I relieved him of the bow in Raborsch…”

Henry’s eyebrows slowly raised.

“And! It was immediately clear to me that that bow should go to none other than you,” Hans finished, trying not to fidget with his hands too much. 

“Hans…”

“No, no! No more worries today! I am not allowing our moods to sour even for a second more!”

Henry laughed, still caressing the bow lightly. 

“Well, it is a really nice bow…”

“See?” Hans put his hands on his hips, smiling widely. “I would love for us to test it soon, too, you know? Ride out, break of dawn, put some fear of God into the hearts of the local game!”   

“I'm all for it,” Henry smiled back, “once we talk to Godwin and find out if Zizka’s not coming back soon.”

“Ah, that, yes,” Hans sighed. “You know, I really wish we could just have some time for ourselves, at last… Tedious, all this waiting and scheming and worrying.”

“Aye.”

“Let's go talk to the man, then, and then… Let Fortuna carry our arrows straight into some boar backsides!”

“We are not hunting boar, Hans,” Henry laughed as they moved towards the door. “Or Cumans, for that matter!”

Hans wanted to say something more, laughing, but on his way to the door passed the table Henry's things were scattered on: herbs, obviously, and some baubles, and then a book - and, sticking out, the dark fabric that worried him before. It made whatever he wanted to say get stuck in his throat—then, give way to something uneasy. 

“Henry,” he started, looking at the things and hovering in the doorway, “I… Is that-”

“That, my lord, is nothing you should be worrying about,” Henry smiled, ushering him out of the door. “You said it yourself, eh? No more worries today!”

“Well,” Capon wavered; it was hard to even think about anything when he had Henry that close, bodies nearly pressed against each other—and his face inches away, grinning widely. 

Now! Echoed in his head. Kiss him now! 

Kiss! Him! Now! 

Hans shook his head.

“Aye, no more worries today!” He nodded, and left their room: with Henry following closely—very closely—behind. 

Their conversation with Godwin was interrupted three times: first, Adder approached their table and without saying a single word, simply took the full tankard of beer that was in front of Henry and left—everyone was too shocked to react in that moment—then, it was Janosh, coming to ask whether anyone had seen Adder. And then, once they finally managed to go through some of the possible plans, Kubyenka arrived with some more news.

“So,” Hans said, nursing his wine. “Zizka is behind, what, a day?”

“Two, at best,” Kubyenka replied, looking around in search of Treadlight. “And then, once Samuel gets back from Kolin, it will be time to act.”

“Aye,” Henry said, scratching his neck. “I’m glad we managed to get some rest at least.”

He was about to say something more but suddenly he spotted Janosh walking back their way: he was carrying a full tankard of beer. He put it on the table in front of Henry, shaking his head apologetically.

“Adder say sorry, you know,” the man said. “You not mad, Henry, eh?”

“No, but I am slightly confused!” Henry laughed. 

“Stupid idea in his head, bastard… Cost Janosh ten groschen!”

“How come?”

“Wager,” the man sighed, deeply. “My own, eh, stupidity.”

“Speaking of wagers,” Kubyenka said, happily taking a bottle from Treadlight tending to their table. “I need to get Hynek… I passed something mighty interesting in the forest and if I know the bastard, he won’t pass up the opportunity to boast his crossbow skills.”

Hans huffed to himself, quietly— and blushed awkwardly when Henry caught him doing it, laughing. 

“There’s a nest, high in the tree, that’s got a whole hat in it. With a brooch!”

Godwin groaned and hid his hand in his hands, drunkenly. 

“Oh, father, maybe you know something about that?” Hans giggled.

“Let’s not…”

“Well, would you like your hat back?” Hans grinned. “I say, let’s get Sir Hynek and we can go, see who can shoot it down! Henry, you’re in?”

“Aye, absolutely!” Henry nodded enthusiastically. Let his leg, entirely innocently, shift a bit under the table and press his calf again Capon’s—watched, with satisfaction, as the young lord suddenly became immensely interested in the wood grain of the table. 

Suddenly, Adder approached: in solemn, conspiratorial silence, passed a small item to Janosh. The man sighed and shook his head, and reached into his pouch to get some coins out. 

“Another ten groschen…” He whined. “You kill me, my Adder, you kill me.”

Adder grinned. 

The small item was an embroidered handkerchief: one Henry knew very well belonged to Margaret. 

“I think someone else will kill you, once she notices it’s gone…”

“Za kogo ty mnie masz, co,” Adder shook his head, swaying back and forth in his usual manner. “Ani się nie zorientowała… Na tym polega cała zabawa! W tym jest cały, kolego, szkopuł.”

“Adder say, the whole thing is about her not noticing,” Janosh explained. “That is the skill, eh!”

“Oh, aye,” Henry nodded. “It is a skill… We should wager about that, too. I bet I can… Borrow something from anyone here, without them noticing.”

“What the fuck are ye bastards talking about,” Dry Devil asked, walking up to them. “Blabbering like a bunch of women in the market.”

“We are planning a tournament, Sir Hynek,” Hans grinned, finishing his wine. “A sort of… Devil’s tournament, let’s call it, given the esteemed establishment it’s happening in.”

“Oh, aye!” Henry grinned. “We have two games so far… Marksmanship, to recover Father Godwin’s hat, and, well…”

“Stealing shit,” Kubyenka added, hiccuping, and reaching to smack Dry Devil’s side. “You’re in, eh?”

“If I’m supposed to kick yer arses,” the man said, “I need more than two games. More satisfying that way.”

“Swords, maybe?”

“No,” Janosh shook his head. “Unfair, Henry… Me, Adder, we like other weapons, eh?”

“Walka na kutasy,” Adder laughed mischievously. “To mamy wszyscy, co?”

“What did he say?” Hans asked.

“He, uh,” Janosh shrugged, “I don’t know, nothing, nothing. Arm wrestle, eh? That!”

Adder scoffed, rolling his eyes. 

“Hmm…” Henry shifted his leg a bit, pressing harder against Capon’s knee; watched Hans suddenly look up and examine the clouds above them as if they were some grand, crucial premonitions to be tracked. “I like that idea.”

“And anything else we come up with…” Kubyenka nodded. “Once we, you know… Sober up a bit.”

“Yer the only one drunk, you greedy fuck.”

“Oh, come off it…”

The men talked for some more time—but Henry wasn’t listening. All he could focus on was the shade that Hans’ ears slowly turned, and the way his own heart sped up each time he felt Capon’s leg press against him, too. 

“Psst,” he leaned over the table, trying to get Hans’ attention without alerting anyone else. “Let’s get out of here, eh?”

Hans just looked at him: a spark in his bright, blue eyes. Endearing. 

“If Zizka’s to arrive tomorrow, I want to spend at least some more time with you, Sir Hans, what do you say?”

“Well… If you insist…” Hans pretended to be unconvinced, running his hand through his fair hair in contemplation. 

“Please,” Henry added, looking at him expectantly: hoping, very hard, to convey the wide-eyed hopeful plea that Mutt showed each time he knew it might get him some sausage. “My lord…”

“Hmpf, well,” Hans cleared his throat. “We have at least a couple of hours until sunset… Maybe I can spare a moment or two.”

“Oh, the mercy…” Henry closed his eyes in solemn thanks. “Thank you, and might God reward you with-”

“If ye plan on whispering about like flies buzzing around horse arses, ye can fucking go do it elsewhere,” Dry Devil interrupted them. 

They both just tried not to laugh—like little boys, caught misbehaving during mass—and scurried away, leaving the rest of the pack to keep drinking in the sun. 

He truly is the devil, Henry thought about Dry Devil as he followed Hans into the stables. We were being very, very subtle.

Henry watched as Hans got into the saddle: quickly, gracefully, with just a little bit of impatience; felt, like always, a little bit of pride.

“Let’s go… I want to show you something,” Capon said, head held high; sun, getting through the leaves of the trees above them, played on his face.

“Aye, I’m right behind,” Henry said, laughing, and getting Pebbles to catch up with him.

Let himself drift off, for a moment, thinking of that other world he sometimes conjured up in his mind: the one where this would just be an excuse to go into the forest and have a moment… To themselves. 

See if Hans’ cheeks would turn the same shade of pink as they did as they sat around the table—if Henry was to slightly push him against a tree, hands on his chest, and then lower, and lower, and against his thighs. Would he look up at the skies, too, with Henry taking him into his mouth, or would he squeeze his eyes shut? 

Would he-

“You are not listening to me at all, eh?” Hans giggled. 

“Oh, sorry, Hans.”

“I was saying that a proper tournament… Well, if this can be called proper, really,” he laughed, relaxing in the saddle. “Could benefit from a proper prize, that’s one, but also from the oversight and blessing of a lady!”

“Aye, certainly,” Henry nodded. “Not many ladies at the Den, though.”

“Mhm, yes… Maybe Anna would agree. Can’t imagine asking Margaret, although she is a bit more lady-like out of the two,” Hans wondered. 

“A kiss for the winner,” Henry teased; mostly, he was curious whether Hans would hint, at some point, whether he preferred one of the girls over the other. Henry had no doubt, after all, that he had been with both at some point. 

“Mhm, or more!” Hans gestured widely. “That would certainly be motivation like no other to win the contest, eh?”

“Right,” he agreed, getting Pebbles to trot right next to Capon. “Shame the Rattay tourneys did not have a lady blessing them.”

“Pfft! Jesus, can you imagine,” Hans started laughing, shaking his head. “And what, being my champion is not enough for you, Henry of Skalitz, you greedy beast?”

“Well, being your champion is the greatest honour, my lord, but one must admit that it’s a little bit different. Given it does not come with a kiss.”

Hans coughed.

“Ough, something flew into my mouth,” he said, suddenly, spitting a bit. “Anyway, uh. What were we talking about?”

“A lady’s noble patronage over our very noble Devil’s tournament.”

“Aye, right… But we’d have to make sure to establish a clear winner. Can’t have a tie, you know, if there’s a… Kiss to be claimed, as a prize.” Hans giggled, returning to feeling comfortable in the subject. 

“As we know, it is impossible for women to kiss more than one man,” Henry nodded solemnly. 

“Well…” Hans shifted in the saddle, slightly. “Not at once, at least.”

“Nature’s cruel like that, aye.”

“But, you know,” Hans was very focused on the road in front of them; there was a sudden mischievous note to his tone. “It’s not all that uncommon for knights to enjoy such a prize from one lady. At once, sometimes. I’d even say it evokes a certain… Knightly camaraderie, no?”

Henry felt the day get a bit warmer, suddenly—and his cheeks, too, even though they were riding through shade.

Capon turned around to look at him: seemed very smug at the fact that he managed to embarrass Henry a bit. 

“There is no need to pretend to be that innocent, my dear page,” he said, suddenly, smirking. “Your lord isn’t some chaste youngling, you know, ready to chastise you for your experiences.”

Pebbles slowed down a bit on her own, clearly confused as well.

“Huh?” Was all that Henry managed to utter.

“Oh, Henry,” Hans giggled, shaking his head.

“I… I’m glad you think me so experienced, Hans, but I’ve never…”

“Never?”

“Well, no,” Henry suddenly felt horribly embarrassed. And somehow surprised at how he never thought about it: had Hans done that many times? Shared a woman with another… Man?

He recalled Enneleyn for a moment—Capon’s brash and immediate refusal to even entertain the idea. At least when Henry was concerned. 

“No?” Hans was grinning. “You’re sure?”

“Well, yes,” Henry coughed out. 

“Oh, Henry, Henry…” Capon shook his head again, and some of his hair fell into his eyes. “Before we left Trosky to ride and take back Nebakov… The feast?” He asked, running his fingers through his hair to get it back in order. 

“Aye,” Henry cleared his throat. “What, uh, about it..?”

Hans sighed, clearly very self-satisfied. 

“You were at the baths, after, no?”

“Uh-”

“No need to be shy about it!” Hans said, unbearably smug. “God knows I am the last person to reprimand you for bathing, ha!”

“Aye, well-”

“And,” Hans said, “as one very well acquainted with the ways of the bath maids and secrets of bathhouses, I could tell, by your dearly scratched neck the next day… And the very particular smell of a very particular oil… That you, let us say, indulged in all the establishment had to offer,” he giggled, looking at Henry’s ears turning crimson.

“Aye, maybe,” Henry didn’t know whether he should come up with a lie or come clean. Or run away and into a tree, hoping to break his neck and die, just to get out of that conversation.

“And the Trosky baths, for all the magnificence of the fortress itself, have but only one sweet maid.”

Henry thought about Magda; then, immediately, thought how she was nowhere near the baths after the feast.

“So you must have shared, no? A very simple equation, knowing there’s just one girl there,” Hans’ face lit up in unprecedented satisfaction, as if he was admitting to solving the universe’s greatest riddle. “Von Bergow’s bodyguard, as I would like to remind you, escorted us out of the gates. So I could tell… He smelled, undeniably, like the very same oil.”

God fucking Almighty, was all that Henry could think. He suddenly felt faint—had to hold onto the reins harder, and Pebbles shook her head in disapproval. 

Fuck. Fuck, echoed in his mind. 

“So, all I can say is that I am proud of you, my fearless escort!” Hans hurried his horse, getting in front of Henry with his head held high smugly. “Knightly camaraderie indeed, eh?”

“Aye…” Henry had to fight to even get any sound out of his throat. 

“So, if we go head to head,” Hans said slowly, not looking back at him but up, at the skies, “and end up in a tie… We could think about sharing the prize, eh?”

Henry wanted to say something but nothing came to mind. He could feel his face burn and his chest rattle with a heartbeat faster than a hare. 

They rode on: the forest, despite the relentless heat, smelled fresh, like the abundance of green covering its every inch. Henry noted each plant as they passed it, out of those useful ones—but he kept getting distracted, too. 

Hans, in front of him, so graceful in the saddle of his stolen horse: and so light, so full of joy, so unburdened. Cocky, through it, too, but Henry found it endearing. He always had. 

“Well, my dear and darling escort!” He exclaimed, voice bright; Henry felt his heart flutter at the choice of words. “Have you given any more thought to the tourney?”

“Well,” Henry said, swaying lazily in the saddle as Pebbles trotted slowly through the woods. “I’m mostly just thinking that I’ll win it.”

“Ha! Absolutely not!” Hans laughed, loud, throwing his head back. “I have utmost trust in your skills, yes, but even you, Henry of Skalitz, cannot compete with Lord Capon of Pirkstein!”

“Aye, well, I will compete, tomorrow,” he teased. “And I will win!”

“You will not!”

“Are you asking me to yield to you, my lord? Is that a noble order I must heed?”

Hans snorted in laughter, face scrunched up in the sun.

“You are so going to use that against me once you lose, eh, you bastard?” He laughed, turning around slightly to look at him. “When I win, I will win fair and square, I’ll have you know.”

“Aye. We will see…”

“Besides, I already thought of some games and I can safely say, I will excel at all.”

“Do remember, Hans, that we all get to pitch… We all get to suggest games. And the nobles are outnumbered, so far, by us, simple folk. And our simple games.”

“If I excel at noble games, I can’t imagine failing at the simple ones.”

“You’d be surprised,” Henry laughed, catching up to him. “But that is the matter for tomorrow. Now, what did you want to show me? Where are we going?”

“It’s an abandoned hunting camp… We can check it out before we go out to hunt. I’ve been there some time ago, while you were gone, and, well,” Hans cleared his throat. “Well, that’s a story for another day.”

“Aye, alright!”

Hans looked at him: his cheeks were flushed, and only some of it was sunburn. The sun had made his hair even lighter, too, and his eyebrows. 

And his eyelashes. 

Three freckles bloomed across his cheeks—for the first time in his life since he was a child, most likely, running free and wreaking havoc upon poor Rattay. 

“I think I’ll win the tourney with no issue at all,” Capon said, “mostly because you seem to be very easily distracted, Henry! You’re staring again.”

“Nooo, my lord, I’m not.”

“You are!”

“Well, a little bit, maybe,” Henry tried to stop himself from smirking. “But, back to the hunt! Is that camp far? Are we lost?”

“Me, lost, in a forest?” Hans huffed, hurrying his horse a bit.. “Preposterous!”

“Uh-oh,” Henry clicked his tongue. “Longer words are getting used, some noble pride is being soothed…”

Hans just giggled. 

“Come, let’s go, it’s not far.”

As they rode on, Hans started whistling: it was the same melody he was humming that morning, waking Henry up.

He was about to ask about it—when Hans slowed down, suddenly.

“It’s, uh,” his voice was strange, “it’s here, but I… I think we should turn back.”

Tense silence fell for a moment. 

“What? Why?” Henry caught up to him; Pebbles stopped in her tracks, unwilling to go forward.

It was, indeed, an abandoned hunting camp: but it wasn’t empty.

It was strewn with corpses.

By the broken shields and soiled waffenrocks, it was clear these were Praguers, in Sigismund’s service; by the heavy smell in the air, it was clear they were alive just moments ago. Henry looked closer: the wounds were multiple and rather extensive; whoever killed them took their time, clearly enjoying both the upper hand and the brutality of it. There were slashes from blades and skulls crushed with maces or hammers—a couple of crossbow bolts jutted out from some of the bodies, too. 

Henry got down from the saddle: gestured at Capon to remain in his, just in case a quick retreat was necessary, 

“These are Sigismund’s men…” Hans said, quietly, on high alert. “But it doesn’t seem like something anyone from the Den could do…”

“Aye,” Henry replied simply, hand firmly on the hilt of his sword. He approached the bodies to look at them closer—check if anyone, by some chance, was still alive. 

“Don’t think there are many Wenceslas’ loyalists here,” Hans added, eyes fixed on Henry with worry. He was clearly unhappy to remain in the saddle while Henry was risking his own safety and prospects of getting away fast enough. “Let’s go back to the Den, Henry. We’ll tell everyone… If they deem it worrying enough we’ll return in bigger numbers.”

“We should do that,” Henry agreed, looking at the gored soldiers in front of him. “I wouldn't even do anything before Zizka comes back.”

“Aye,” Capon shifted in the saddle. “Come on, get on your horse and let’s-”

A loud whistle interrupted him—as a crossbow bolt cut through the air, landing somewhere far, in the bushes. 

Hans looked at Henry—Henry unsheathed his sword, ready to attack, even though no opponent was visible yet.

“Go,” he hissed at Capon, “go!”

“I’m not leaving you!” Hans shook his head and gracefully jumped down from the saddle; in a blink of an eye he was by Henry, side to side, sword raised. “Not what I had in mind when I wanted a hunt.”

“Yes, this is the ideal time to joke, Hans.”

“Well I-”

Another bolt cut through the air: this time slightly closer to their heads, but still off by quite a lot. It hit the tree behind them at an awkward angle, ricocheting into the grass. 

From the bushes beyond the massacred camp, a loud, bellowing laughter sounded out. 

“The shittiest fucking aim this side of Danube,” the male voice said, laughing. The bushes rustled as the band started emerging. 

“Shut the fuck up, you lumbering fool,” the other voice replied, croaky and upset. “I told you it’s a curse.”

“Aye, curse, shit,” another voice, giggling, added. His owner—short, lean—emerged into the clearing first, rubbing his hands together in glee. “Look! Like fishies to bait…”

His face was covered in twofold dots: half were freckles—the other, a splatter of blood. The second man that emerged from the bushes was much bigger than him: ridiculously tall and broad, and covered, similarly, in slowly drying gore. 

Two other men came out, too, from the thicket on the sides of the camp: successfully surrounding them, and cutting off not only the possible routes of escape, but access to Pebbles, too.

Henry felt his heart speed up, ready to attack. 

Then, from the bushes behind the giant and the freckle-strewn man, a rider on a horse: holding a crossbow, aimed right at them. The horse snorted and shook its head as it got into the clearing, stepping over one of the broken bodies— the rider swayed in the saddle.

The swaying made a ringing noise—a small bell. 

Her colourful hood was off, pushed back: a mess of wild, uneven hair, as if cut short by a man with no eyes, was in some parts glued by blood. Despite the blood and dirt on her face, Henry would recognise the strange rider immediately: the deep, jagged scar, cleaving her face nearly in half and warping it grotesquely, was really hard to forget. 

“Oh! Hoho!” The rider exclaimed in glee; the horse stepped in place, as if rejoicing, too. “More fun!” 

Henry thought, feverishly, of multiple possibilities—multiple scenarios, and none of them good. When he met that strange band, he was pretending to be one of the bandits at Vranik: and barely escaped with his life, spared for reasons he himself still didn't really understand. 

Would it be better if they recognised him—or not? 

Then, he felt cold sweat roll down his back: his own situation was one thing. But Hans . 

Henry looked quickly to the side, at Capon’s face. It was stuck in an expression of confusion, surprise—and, to an extent, disgust. 

“Now, that’s very rude, staring that way,” the freckled one said, scratching the shorn side of his head in pretended contemplation. 

“Aye, rude,” the rider said, and only one corner of her scarred lips turned down. “Makes me sad, like.”

“You’ve never seen a lady so pretty?” The giant asked, tucking his hands into his belt; he clearly wasn’t worried about any resistance from their end. The other men laughed under their breaths, weapons drawn. 

Henry heard Hans inhale, slowly. Then, to his horror, he saw him lower his sword. 

“Apologies, my lady,” he said, his voice, despite slight fear, perfectly reined into courtly respect. “We were just surprised, my page and I, at the suddenness of your appearance here. And, as I assume it would be foolish to pretend otherwise, the maimed bodies around us.”

The men looked at each other, amused. 

“Well, would you look at that,” the rider straightened in her saddle; the bell on the long liripipe of her hood rang slightly, again. “A civilised man, in the middle of all this wilderness!”

“Aye,” Hans replied, and Henry was surprised that he kept his voice so calm. Charming, even. “I dare presume these men were dispatched by you and your men, my lady?”

Calling Künne a lady would be amusing in any context: but certainly in that situation, covered in blood and guts, in a mismatched armour clearly stolen from multiple robbed—or killed—men.

Henry kept his sword raised, still, not entirely convinced by Capon’s noble idea of conflict resolution. 

“Yes,” she replied, looking at them with narrowed eyes. She slowly lowered the crossbow. 

“Then, I would like to make sure you are aware that we are on the same side,” Hans added. “If they were not felled by your swords, they would suffer a similar fate by ours.”

“Is that so?” She asked, and there was a spark in her eyes: curiosity, perhaps, or something else. 

“Yes,” Hans cleared his throat. “We are in the service of lords loyal to the only rightful king of Bohemia, Wenceslas, and sworn to fight the usurper’s men, bandits that they are, whenever we can.”

“Usurper…” the freckled man hummed to himself. “Lütke, what’s that mean?”

“That means thief, like, in a way,” the big man added. “He’s calling king Sigismund a thief, Nithart.”

“Ooooh,” the freckled man giggled. “I see.”

Henry could feel Hans tense, for a brief moment; but he recovered quickly, head held high. 

“By your colours, my lady, I can see you are in the service of…” He squinted, trying to see the shield tied to the saddle haphazardly through the blood and grime it was covered with. “Duke Premyslaus Nosak, no?”

The rider grinned: it was a nasty smile, warping her face even more. She made the horse spin in place—one turn, two—and stop in a way that offered Capon the view on the other side of the saddle, where a different shield was tied.

“And,” Hans tried not to let it deter him, “Duke Konrad the Old, of Oels? Unless, of course, one of these shields is merely a trophy.”

Henry felt uneasy. He remembered seeing them at Vranik: in a myriad of different colours and heraldry. 

“Still, my lady, both these lords are allies to Jagiello, and he is no friend of Sigismund’s,” Hans continued. “Therefore, as I’ve said, we are on the same side.”

“My head hurts from all that chirping,” Nithart said. “Let’s just, you know.” He gestured, vaguely, in their direction. 

“I agree,” Lütke added, slowly caressing the hilt of his weapon. 

Künne leaned forward in the saddle. 

“Who the fuck are you, actually,” she said, looking at Hans, “that you know so much? And chirp so much?”

Henry felt a wave of worry pass through him: even if they knew the strange band’s alliance, telling them who they are outright would be foolish. They were, after all, wanted—by Sigismund’s forces, through Von Bergow and Aulitz. 

They had to stay undercover: especially with Zizka still being gone. 

Hans, unfortunately, still believed in the power noble names could hold—and before Henry could stop him, he was bowing slightly. 

“Hans Capon of Pirkstein, my lady, lord of Rattay.”

“Rattay?” She asked and tilted her head to the side curiously; it made something unpleasant churn in the pit of Henry’s stomach. Bringing back memories he would much rather bury forever. 

“Yes, it’s near the Sasau-”

“I know where that is,” she cut him off in her sour, guttural voice. “Fancy that, we were there, not so long ago.”

“Then, surely you know that we are-”

“We killed a lot of of your subjects, Lord Pirkstein,” she giggled, “Fucked plenty of them, too.”

Hans fell silent, for a moment; thought, focused, on the best approach. Tried not to panic, too. 

“That’d be a nice ransom, were we in the ransom business…” She hummed, eyeing Capon attentively. “Unfortunately for you, ransoms are horribly dull, as one’s got to wait a long time for them.”

“Aye,” Lütke agreed, and the rest of the men murmured as well.

“But,” the rider added, smiling, “because you were so sweet and called me a lady, I’ll even offer some explanation.”

Hans did not reply; Henry could feel him shift, just an inch, closer to him. 

“We killed these men, as you say… Sigismund’s men…” She looked at the gored bodies; scratched some dried blood off her face. “Because we stumbled upon them and we were very, very bored.”

“Aye, and they were rude, too,” Nithart added.

“We are not in the ransom business, or noble business, or politicking…” She grinned, again, and made her horse spin in place once more. “We are in the fun business! We are looking for fun.”

“And fun we shall have!” One of the men added, laughing crudely. 

“Killing soldiers, as you might imagine, is rather dull,” Künne continued. “What fun can you have with them, eh? At best, you can force them to denounce their lords and cause and, trust me, they do it right away and without much hassle.”

“And we like hassle!” Nithart clasped his hands in gleeful agreement. 

“So,” the strange scarred woman cracked her neck; the bell at her back jingled. “We are very pleased to have met you, Lord of Somewhere and Something, and your darling page,” she grinned, “that I would now like you to skewer onto your longsword, for our esteemed amusement.”

The men all smiled, clearly taken with the idea. 

Henry heard Hans inhale; he was clearly at a loss, and started to panic. They were severely outnumbered, and cut off from escape. 

Frantically, Henry tried to think of any other possible solutions: it was nearly impossible to negotiate with madmen, and he had no other leverage. Spooking them wasn’t a possibility either.

Begging, perhaps.

Or if I lunge, he thought, heart heavy like a stone, and distract them, maybe Hans can run.

“It’s just your squire, come on,” Nithart giggled. “You’d be doing him a kindness, too! Go on, right through the belly, eh?”

“A bit of a shame, though…” Lütke said, suddenly.

“Oh, right,” Künne giggled. “Maybe we would like to have some different fun, first.”

There was one other option.

Henry recalled, despite the walls he built up around that memory, the time at Vranik: and the band’s conversation he overheard while hidden in the thicket. 

There was one thing they were scared off.

Or rather: one person. 

“Go on, indulge us,” Künne added. “If you do it, we solemnly promise to kill you right away, too, before Lütke gets any ideas about-”

Suddenly, she straightened in the saddle—tilted her head to the side like a half-deaf dog, looking at Henry as he stepped forward.  

“Maybe it’ll be even more fun the other way around, aye,” she said. “Page killing the lord? That’s fun, eh?” She turned in the saddle to look at her men. “What do we think?”

“You will leave us alone,” Henry said, keeping his voice as rough and confident as he could. “And if you value your life, you will ride off back where you came from, and not utter a word about meeting us here.”

All eyes turned to him—some men laughed, some scoffed. Künne didn’t laugh: just looked at him, in a grotesque grimace of confusion.

“Mad, are you?”

“Shit, if she’s calling you mad, lad, you know it’s dire,” Lütke laughed. 

“Fine,” Henry shrugged. “If you’re making me spell it out, I can. But it will mean trouble for both you and me, and I’ll have to kill this fucker after, too,” he finished, gesturing at Hans. He tried, very hard, not to look in his eyes. 

“What the fuck are you on about?” Künne asked, leaning forward in the saddle again. “If you- Oh! Oh!” Her eyes widened, suddenly, and her brows furrowed—to the extent the deep scar running between them allowed. “Häschen? Häschen!”

The men looked at her—then at Henry. 

“Oh, shit, lad,” the giant Lütke grinned. “I thought you sort of looked familiar, with those big eyes of yours.”

“Little hare!” Künne exclaimed, croaky. “What a wonder! What a twist of fate!”

“I would like to remind you,” Nithart said, “that after you let him go because he answered your stupid riddle, you regretted not killing him.”

“Aye, you talked about it for days,” another man added.

Künne looked at Henry in deep focus.

“Oh, aye,” she said. “I forgot.”

Henry inhaled, slowly. He wished, very hard, that he could somehow reassure Hans, too—but there was nothing he could do at that point, only brace for what was to come.

“Finally,” Lütke groaned, getting his weapon out. “Let’s just kill them, please, at last.”

“Wait, wait-” the rider stopped them with a quick gesture of her hand. “We followed the Dog star to find a dog… But we found a hare… What does that mean?”

“No, no, we are not doing that!” Lütke got upset, flailing his arms like an angry child. “No riddles! No stupid- Stupid… Whatevers. Let’s just kill them!”

“You can,” Henry shrugged, making sure his voice was cold and unaffected. “See how he likes it, once he hears of it.”

If they came from Sasau—they wouldn’t have heard the news.

This was the only possible leverage he had: a lie, horrid, that he had to commit to selling. Their lives depended on it; his, but Hans’, most importantly. 

Künne looked at him, shushing her men. Hans looked at him, too, surprised: uncertain. 

Luckily, each emotion playing on Hans’ worried face was an advantage in selling the lie. 

“Weeks of being undercover down the fucking gutter,” Henry said, spitting on the ground. “He’ll kill me, once he finds out, and he’ll sure as shit kill you, too.”

“What’s he on about, mouthy cunt?” Lütke asked, confused—but he turned to Künne, clearly put off by the sudden change of tension. 

The rider narrowed her eyes: waited. 

“Too stupid to connect the dots on your own?” Henry asked. Sheathed his sword; crossed his arms and looked at the rider with a clear challenge in his eyes.

His heart was beating so frantically he was afraid it would choke him. He felt a slight shiver running down Hans’ arm, pressed to his. 

“Fine,” he added. “You will leave us alone and not speak of this encounter, unless you want Istvan to hunt you to the edge of the fucking world.”

The name felt rotten on his tongue. He hadn’t uttered it in weeks. He thought he would never again have to say it. 

Hans suddenly stepped back, half a pace, reflexively. Künne immediately aimed her crossbow at him, drawn. 

“Tsk, tsk, don’t move too much,” she said; a sudden note of doubt in her sour voice. “I call bullshit, little hare.”

“Fine, have it your way.”

She was thinking about it: it was clear from her face that she was doing her best to connect every dot that came to mind, and weigh all possibilities against each other. 

“I don’t have to justify myself to you but I will, out of the goodness of my fucking heart,” Henry said. “You’ve seen me at his camp.”

“Aye, nobody that you were,” she countered. “Why would he suddenly send you on some important mission, eh? Luring nobles into woods or what have you?”

“Might have been a nobody then,” he shrugged, “but I… Fell into favour.”

Don’t think about it, he thought to himself. Don’t let it back in. 

“Such quick fucking promotion? Bull-shit.”

“Clearly you don’t know how these things work,” he replied.

“Ha!” She threw her head back, jingling. “You have no idea who I am, Häschen, and what I know or not know about him.”

“Clearly you’re no one important,” he said, slowly, “if you don’t know who I am, and what I’m doing here.”

She huffed: it was frustration, but it was anger, too, bubbling up. Henry knew he was playing a dangerous game, with someone less than stable. 

“Fine, you’re one of his men,” she shrugged. “We’ll let you go.”

Henry felt a squeeze in his chest: relief, quickly chased away by further worry. It couldn’t have been that easy.

“Just pass us this sweet lordling of yours,” she grinned. 

The forest was strangely quiet; all Henry could hear was the jingle of the little bell, swaying, and Hans’ hardly controlled breathing. 

“He’s the reason why I’m here,” Henry said, shaking his head. “No way.”

“You said it yourself, now that things are in the open, you have to kill him, eh?” Künne clicked her tongue; leaned over and spat on the grass. “We’ll be happy to do it for you.”

“No.”

The band seemed impatient. 

“Toth’s man or not,” Nithart said, “we do deserve a bit of fun, don’t we?”

“At least a little bit,” Lütke agreed. 

“Alright,” Künne nodded solemnly. “At least let us watch you kill him, eh? That’ll be fun as well.”

Henry felt Hans force himself not to take another step back. Had to stop himself from looking at him: he knew he would see disgust, and worry, and fear. 

“I will kill him on my own terms and my own pace,” Henry said, mustering as much confidence as he could. “And it’s none of your fucking business.”

The band stood there, clearly contemplating. They seemed vehemently unhappy with letting Henry go—it was clear they would not give up on Hans. 

“Look how pale he’s gone…” Nithart said, suddenly, and his voice was surprisingly low: gone was the giggling and glee. Something unpleasant sparked in his eyes. “Far from home, aren’t you, pale bird?”

Hans swallowed: didn’t say anything.

“Künne,” Lütke said suddenly. “You owe me for that dice game, still.”

He was looking at Hans—purposefully and brazenly—clearly deep in thought. 

“Oh, shit,” she rolled her eyes. “Alright! You whoreson. Alright.” She turned to Henry. “Give him to us for a turn or two, and we’ll leave you both be. You’ll get to kill him the way you like, without us bothering you.”

“No,” Henry shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

“Well, shit,“ Künne spat again. “Don’t pretend you want to save your lordling’s maidenhood, eh? Unless you don’t have shit to do with Istvan, and you’re lying...”

“No,” Henry repeated. “I owe you no explanations.”

“Come on, one turn,” Lütke said, eyeing Hans slowly. “He wouldn’t be able to take more anyway.”

“Oh,” Künne said, and sudden silence fell. 

“Henry,” Hans whispered; he was terrified. 

“I see…” The rider croaked out in laughter. “It’s not about any honour, eh? Lütke, you can’t have a turn of that noble arse, because our hare here wants him all to himself.”

Henry felt a hot wave of rage mixed with shame rattle his whole body.

“Look at him,” she grinned, “he’s boiling at the very thought of you snatching that morsel from under his nose.”

“Understandable, really,” Lütke said.

“Oh, you sly thing,” the strange rider kept laughing, eyeing them both stubbornly. “Is this why you took him so far into the forest..?”

“Look at him,” Nithart tutted. “Itching for it… I’m sure his cock is at the ready already.”

The men laughed; Künne’s bell rang, silvery sound, across the gory camp. 

“Won’t share, little hare?” She asked.

Henry just held her gaze. He was terrified of the situation they found themselves in—but he was also terrified by the memories that started creeping in, blood-red, swirling, cursed.

“Well, we can’t leave with nothing,” she said, at last.

Henry grabbed Hans, rough, by the elbow: it was half-reassurance, sneaky, and half-possession, for the spectators watching them carefully.

“Then, let’s…” Lütke kept caressing the hilt of his weapon. “Come on, let us watch. Fuck him, here and now, and we’ll leave you be. Give us that, at least.”

For the first time in a longer moment, Henry couldn’t think of anything to say. He felt horrified—he even looked at Künne, nearly as if searching for some ounce of sympathy. Some ounce of mercy. 

What if this was the only way out of it? 

It couldn’t be—God—it couldn’t be. 

He would never forgive you. You would never forgive yourself. God, anything, anything but this. The air smelled like Vranik, suddenly. 

He felt Hans’ muscles tense beneath his hand. 

“Just kill me,” Hans said, suddenly. It was clear he wanted to be brave—his voice didn’t even shake, even though his hands did. 

The band raised their weapons, all at once, more than happy to oblige.

“Shut the fuck up,” Henry said, rough, dragging Capon closer to him by the elbow. Then, he turned to Künne. “You’re playing with fire. You don’t know who I am.”

She laughed, sour and somewhere deep in her throat. 

“And who are you , then, eh, little hare?” She tilted her head to the side. 

“I’m not just one of Istvan’s men. I’m his most trusted man.”

“Bull! Shit!” She shrieked, shaking her head in laughter. “He trusts no one!”

“Is that so?” Henry raised his eyebrow in a nearly mastered expression of disdain. He let his fingers curl around Hans’ elbow even more: visibly. Possessively. Künne’s eyes snapped to that motion immediately, as planned.

“Well…” Lütke chimed in, hesitant. Henry noticed that while Künne was still pushing back, unconvinced, all of her men started being rather worried. 

“Hate to actually fuel your insanity, Kuna, but… The Dog star, and all…” Nithart added. 

“Yes, she was supposed to lead us to his dog, you fucking imbecile, and not-” Künne stopped herself. Bit her lip. Spat on the ground. “Fuck…”

Henry held her gaze; tried his best to ignore Hans’ panicked breathing. 

“Black dog… White dog…” She hummed, looking at him. “Now you?”

“Aye,” he said simply. “You can ask Istvan, should you have the luck of meeting him.”

Künne grimaced and muttered something under her breath. It was clear that she started to slowly believe him—and that she really, really didn’t like it.  

For a moment—horrifying—Henry felt as if he was standing right behind him. Grinning. Delighted to have this claim on him. 

Henry had to focus really hard on dispelling that vision; it brought the taste of blood to his tongue. Something tart and bitter, too. 

“I’ll ask you a riddle,” she said, suddenly. “That only his… Dog… Would know the answer to, and no one else.”

“Go on.”

A thousand thoughts rushed through Henry’s mind; he felt nauseous. He prayed that Capon didn’t understand any of it. 

“The apostles…” she hummed, making her horse spin in place once, again. “Bored of turning the other cheek, done… Took up arms and had some fun… The fourth among them, bless his heart, got cut down.”

Henry felt scared. He had no idea what any of that meant. Hans started breathing faster—then, slower. Quiet; nearly no breath at all. 

“What’s the name of that town?” Künne finished, grinning. 

Silence fell.

“Eh, Häschen?”

Something only his dog would know. Something… Intimate. 

Apostles taking up arms, Henry thought, feverish. Crusade? 

Fourth apostle? Why fourth? 

Fourth, out of twelve. 

Then, his throat tightened: he felt as if he was in that house on the hill again, in the darkness, with them. Bittersweet, pleasure mixed with pain, and fear, and—someone else’s name, not his. Not Henry. Someone else, as they touched him.

Istvan’s voice rang out in his head: the horrific melody intertwining mockery with tenderness. 

Crusade. The scar. At his heart, fourth rib—when the Turks wounded him.

To know the name of the place where it happened, he had to recall Skalitz, too. The first time he saw him. Before it all turned to ash and rot and gore. 

It hurt: it hurt so, so bad. He didn’t want to think that far back. 

“Tsk,” the rider clicked her tongue. “Lying is so ugly, little hare...”

“Nicopolis,” he said, suddenly. His throat hurt. 

Künne froze. Her men looked at her—clearly shocked—and took a step back. 

“Forgive me for taking some time,” Henry added, letting a nasty smile warp his face. “But I got a bit carried away, fantasizing.”

Künne shook her head, as if she tried to shake off a bug crawling in her hair. 

“Well… Shit,” she croaked out. “That star really fucked me over, eh?”

The men were restless.

“Let’s just go,” Nithart said. “I don’t like this.”

Künne looked him in the eyes—a strange spark there, something dark—and nodded, slowly. 

“You truly are his dog,” she said. 

It echoed out in his mind, relentlessly.

Henry was afraid he would throw up, in a moment: his stomach churned and he could feel his heartbeat, deafening, in his head. 

“Or you were…” She added, still slightly hesitant. “If we kill you and this little lordling of yours…”

“If you don’t,” Henry sighed, “you might win back some favour, too. Or forgiveness, at least.”

She just scoffed. 

“I mean it,” he added. “Take this. With this, you won’t have to run. He’ll know you helped me, and he’ll… Entertain the idea of being merciful.”

Saying that, he reached to the pouch by his belt—the dark, embroidered fabric of Istvan’s chaperon felt wretched against his fingers—and pulled it out.

Threw it towards Künne, ignoring Hans’ sharp, surprised inhale. 

The rider caught it: turned it in her fingers for a moment. Her expression was unreadable. 

“Well…” She hummed. “Can’t call you little hare no more… Then… Istvan’s darling dog, thank you very much. Fates wanted us to meet, it seems, whores that they are.”

“Aye,” Henry just nodded. 

“Go,” she nodded at Henry. Then, she turned to her men. “Don’t even look at them. Let them go.”

Henry and Hans walked back, still wary, to their horses: got into the saddle and rode off, fast like wind, choosing a route that wouldn’t lead directly to the Den. 

Henry hurried Pebbles, trying to catch up to Hans; the sun was setting, slowly, painting everything in pink, soft and peaceful. Still, the tension between them was anything but. 

“Hans,” he started, holding onto the saddle as Pebbles shook her head, unhappy with the speed he forced her into.

“I-” Hans cleared his throat. “I don’t want to talk, Henry. Let’s just get back, alright?” There was something sad in his voice—distant. Tense. “In silence,” he finished, and sped up, again. 

Henry felt a wave of nausea: heavy and twisting his stomach, bubbling up in his throat. 

It made perfect sense, for Capon to be rattled.

But he was, too. And scared.

And he needed him; the degree to which he needed Hans scared him, a bit, but it felt freeing, somehow, too. Certain feelings clicked into place; certain fears made more sense. 

Henry slowed down a bit.

Hans didn’t. Didn’t turn back, either.

The band was nearly done stripping the Praguers of anything valuable they might have had on them; took one of the shields, too, just to add to their collection. They always found it funny—muddying the waters when it came to their allegiance.

Which was, admittedly, horribly wonky to begin with. Fickle, like the wind.

Künne watched, absent-mindedly, as weapons were wiped of blood and hauberks shaken to rid them of dirt. Her horse was restless, tired of being saddled for so long.

“Can’t wait to see Kuttenberg,” Nithart said, stretching lazily over one of the corpses. “Saint Barbara’s church… Aye, I dream of it.”

“Just of it, or setting fire to it?” One of the men asked, wiping the mud off his boot against the grass. 

“Eh, I don’t think it’d take, unless we had gunpowder…” The freckled man sighed. “And even then, I think she’d protect it.”

“It’d be funny if she didn’t.”

“I'd kindly ask you,” she chimed in, grimacing, “to stop with that Christian shit before I get annoyed.”

“Aye… Künne, we are still going to Kuttenberg, right?”

“Mhm,” she replied, looking up at the skies. First stars were slowly becoming visible against the pink of dusk. 

“Good, shit, I worried that you’d think we’re done now, like. Given that star of yours led us, and, I thought-”

“Don’t think too much, you dirty little fire lizard,” she cut him off. Nithart giggled.

With the men being busy, she guided her horse away from the bodies—didn’t want to confuse the scents. 

As the evening slowly fell over the forest, she brought the dark chaperon to her face—grimacing, bracing—and sniffed it. It didn’t smell like him, anymore: it just smelled like… Soil.

Muddy. Dug up. Dirt. 

Like a grave. 

And in a single heartbeat, she realised two things: one, she got played, and severely. Two: Toth was dead.

Birds, spooked, flew away into the skies abruptly as the forest echoed with her sudden laughter: guttural, strange, like a pond of frogs. When the men looked at her, puzzled, she just shook her head—tight German-style hood back on, bell jingling—and decided not to tell them anything, and just keep laughing. 

They arrived back at the Den: it was evening, already, and instead of the usual merriment, the place was rather quiet. The pack took the idea of the contest to heart—even Adder decided not to get drunk and avoid a hangover; they all were so assured they were the one who would win and yet made sure to raise their chances any way they could. 

Only Brabant was still downstairs, drinking some wine and hoping someone would pass by who would want to talk to him. 

They made sure to ignore him, diligently, for as long as they could. 

“We should eat something,” Henry said, breaking the long moment of silence between them. “I’ll talk to Treadlight and-”

“I’m really not hungry, Henry,” Hans cut him off. 

“Right,” he cleared his throat, awkwardly. The weight of that day was becoming a bit too much to bear. “But you should eat, we haven’t-”

“I said I’m not hungry,” Capon cut him off. “Henry, please. I just… I don’t want us to fight. Please just leave me be.”

“Why would we fight?” Henry asked, brows furrowed. “I’m not- I’m not attacking you for anything.”

“But you’re not backing off, for fuck’s sake, when I want to be left alone,” his tone was pointed, unpleasant. “Jesus, Henry, please.”

Henry fought hard to steady his own breathing. 

“But I don’t want to be alone,” he said, and his voice trembled despite his best effort.

Hans didn’t look at him—just shook his head slightly. 

“I can’t always think of what you want,” he replied, quietly. “Sometimes I have to think of what I need.”

Henry scoffed: loud, louder than he wanted to. Meaner. 

“Alright, have it your way,” Henry said, keeping his tone cold. Similar, painfully, to the countenance he had to force himself into at the massacred camp—Capon picked up on that immediately, and winced. 

“I realise what happened there wasn’t on you,” Capon said, suddenly. “I’m not being an idiot or unnecessarily cruel. I’m not blaming you.”

Henry felt very small, suddenly. 

“But it doesn’t mean that I’m alright with what happened, and how it happened, and what I heard,” he continued, breathing heavier and trying not to fidget with his hands. “And it makes me feel wretched, and horrified, and I don’t want to talk to you now. I don’t want you to-”

Sharp inhale; he stopped himself from saying more. 

“Just leave me be. Today was a bad day… Tomorrow will be better.”

“Alright,” Henry said. 

“Goodnight, Henry,” he said, quietly, and passed him by without looking at him again. 

“Goodnight, Sir Hans,” Henry replied.

Tried to catch Capon’s gaze before he disappeared upstairs: but he didn’t turn around at any point, and then he was gone. 

Henry didn’t know what to do or where to go: so he just sat outside, looking at the darkening skies. 

Hans sat on the chair in their room: hid his face in his hands, for a moment, trying to ignore how they trembled. He didn’t want to be cruel, he didn’t want to be mean—God Almighty, he didn’t want to hurt Henry in any way.

But he had to be alone, for a moment. Push the fear out of his mind. Push the horrid thoughts away: of how hard Henry’s fingers clenched around his elbow, of how cold and strange his voice was, even if it was all pretend. Even if it saved their lives: even if it saved his… Well, honour. If it could even be called honour.

He hated feeling weak. Hated feeling dirty like that: made into something less than he was, something smaller, dependent, fragile. The threats of death were nothing new—the other threats were. They rattled him more than he thought, and he didn’t want to face even thinking about them.

Was that… Was that who he was? Something weak, to be conquered? To be taken, like spoils? Defiled? 

Was that how Henry saw him? If not consciously, then reflexively, somewhere deep in his mind—or, even just in that moment, as the band laughed crudely, eyeing him like a bathhouse wench? 

Was that what his desires meant, too? 

If he told Henry—what he wanted, how he felt about him, what he dreamt of at night—would it just make Henry see that in him: that moment, there, in the camp? 

Hans felt a panic set in: it started low, in his spine, at his back. Like freezing, like turning to stone—and then climbed up, into his throat, stealing his breath. Making it hard to focus.

Suddenly, it was the guards in the Trosky dungeon: crude jokes, disgusting laughter, the cowardly priest not intervening as they forced him to disrobe. It was Von Bergow’s men at Maleshov, looking at him in disdain as he struggled to even get up, back crushed, to piss. It was Hanush, chastising him in front of the servants, once again, when they changed his bandages after the disaster of his first hunt with Henry: as if he wasn’t deathly embarrassed already. As if the servants didn’t talk, already, about him, behind his back. 

Henry: the only person who ever made him feel… Adequate. Strong. Himself. Seeing him through the most horrible things, all his failures, and yet, never losing faith in him. Never doubting him.

And now, he feared that was gone, too. 

Because, even if Henry did not lose faith in him—even if, by some chance, he didn’t think less of him, and it was all pretend, and it horrified him as much as it did Hans—the truth was that Henry lied. 

Not only did he not want to tell him what happened at Vranik—at Trosky—but he lied, about that stupid fucking chaperon. Didn’t deem Hans trustworthy enough to tell him: or hid it from him, for some horrible reason. 

Clearly thought less of him than Hans assumed. 

Stop it, Hans thought. Stop… It’ll pass.

What you feel now, it will pass. 

Today was just a bad day. Tomorrow will be better.

He stood up: looked around the dark room for something to focus on, something to switch his attention to. All he saw was the bowl with the fragrant water and the ornamented comb he used, and he hated it: it made his insides twist with something strange. 

It felt unreal to know they shared a bed the night prior: that vulnerability now seemed like a weakness.

He tried to calm down—force himself to do something to get out of his own mind—but then he heard steps, and the door opened. 

Henry walked in; tried not to look at him.

“I know you wanted to be left alone,” he said, voice rough. “I just wanted to apologise.”

“What? For what?” Hans didn’t want to be cruel but the question came out sharper than he wanted to.

Henry shrugged.

“Just felt like it’s what you want me to do.”

“So…” He inhaled; felt anger bubble up. “You don’t think there’s anything that you should apologise for?”

Henry shrugged, again, tired. 

Hans stood in the middle of their room, in the half-darkness brought by the dusk. He felt his heartbeat in his fingertips; inhaled, slowly, trying to steady himself. There was something unpleasant about the way Henry looked at him—something he wasn't sure how to deal with. 

“I don’t…” He started, then wavered. Why were Henry’s eyes suddenly so foreign? “I don’t like it when you lie to me, Henry.”

Henry’s brows furrowed, mouth half-open in confusion—and in the abrupt readiness to voice his opposition. 

“I can’t have you lying to me,” he continued even though his throat threatened to close completely and drown any other word. “Small things, like the stupid fucking baths at Trosky, I can swallow, I can disregard. But not the important bits.”

“What?” Henry grimaced, head moved back in a wince; still standing three paces from him, still as if cast in stone. “What fucking baths?”

Hans just chuckled, bitterly; shook his head, with his fair hair falling into his eyes.  

“And what, what-” Henry was looking at him with something strange in his gaze: confused, surprised… Angry, perhaps. “What important bits?”

Hans raised his eyebrows, feeling his face warp—against his will and reflexively—into an unmoving, cold expression of noble disappointment and disdain. It only made Henry more upset: more agitated. 

“I would never lie to you, Hans,” he said, voice slightly raised. “I don’t know why you’re accusing me, and of what exactly.”

A short moment of silence, as they looked at each other; the shadows grew heavier. 

“I came here to apologise and this is what you do? What have I done? When have I-”

“Do you always need everything clarified and pointed out as if you were a child?” Hans asked, at last, sighing. 

His own cruelty made him sick—but he couldn’t stop himself, even though he really wished he could. 

“I would never lie to you,” Henry repeated. It was clear—from the slight bloom of crimson on his face and the way his jaw clenched—that he was getting mad. That Hans hit some soft, vulnerable spot.

Some insecurity, perhaps, he thought to himself. 

“Oh, is that so, Henry?” He asked, arms crossed; tilting his head, he allowed himself an obscenely mocking sigh. Cruel and sharp. Undeserved. 

Henry just looked at him: baffled and angry, trying very hard to calm his breathing and not jump to any conclusions—not make anything worse. 

Like an angry, snarling dog knowing he was about to get hit—helpless in the face of it—he waited for the cane to strike his back.

“Your pack, Henry,” Hans’ every word dripped with venom; a maddening mixture of egotistical pride and cutting disappointment. “When I asked you about that fabric, that thing, you lied to me.”

Henry’s eyebrows shot up, for a moment—eyes widened in surprise. Then, he returned to his expression of confusion and anger. 

“You looked through my things?!”

“No, of course not,” Hans shook his head. “Don’t flatter yourself, Henry. What reason would I have to busy myself with your things?”

“I-”

“Unless I should keep you in check? Distrust you? Make sure my squire doesn’t keep anything from me?”

He knew it would sting; and it did, given the face Henry made—the way he inhaled, sharply, as if struck. 

“It stuck out,” Hans shrugged, not turning his gaze away from Henry. Henry, who suddenly seemed small and simply scared in his lowly, base fury. 

“Yes, you told me it was nothing,” Hans spoke slowly, drawing out the syllables like a bite. “And now, that strange fucking band… Those…”

“I told you it was nothing important,” Henry spat out, taking half a step in his direction, rash and rough. He gestured with his hand aggressively. “And that’s the honest truth.”

“Truth, Henry?” Hans forced himself to laugh; a cruel echo of courtly, noble mockery, dealt generously and readily. “If it was fucking nothing then you wouldn’t have hidden it so quickly.”

“Hans-”

“You wouldn’t have kept it.”

Silence fell, thick and heavy like a shroud. It was dark outside. 

“You wouldn’t have used it, like some sort of shield. Some sort of reliquary.”

“That’s ridiculous, Hans, and you know it,” Henry spat out, another half a step closer. He didn’t know what to do with his hands—what to do with his body. Where to look. How to explain; how to get through. 

“Is it?”

“Yes, it fucking is!” Henry shouted, raising his arms in a gesture half-defensive and half-outraged. “What happened, what, are you drunk? Have you-”

“Careful,” Hans hissed through gritted teeth. “Don’t raise your voice at me.”

“Oh, shit, right!” Henry laughed; it made Hans wince as if in pain. “I forgot, noble sir! I’m just a lowly fucking peasant, how dare I show such insolence against my lord!”

“It has nothing to do with our station, Henry,” Capon said, bitter. “I just don’t want you raising your voice at me.”

Henry threw his hands up, again, frustrated. 

“Of course,” he added, still chuckling bitterly. “What you want or not want, that matters most, eh?”

“Screaming and thrashing only proves me right,” Hans shrugged. A faraway echo of a nightingale cut through the air, followed by distant voices of Dry Devil and Kubyenka saying something over the fire.

No birdsong and no flame had any place in that dark, heavy room. 

“All I said is that it was nothing,” Henry barked out, barely able to stop himself from shouting. “And what, you can’t just accept what I say?”

“Well, I know what it is. So, as anyone with half a brain can figure out, I couldn’t just accept that it was nothing.”

“It’s ridi-”

“And you will not convince me,” Hans let out, half-whisper. “That it was a trophy after a kill.” He felt his body tense, like a bowstring drawn. “Even though… It’s what I thought at first, you know. Some sort of sad, pitiful curée…”

Henry recoiled; took a step back, back into the darkness of the room. 

Something in Hans rejoiced: dark and cruel and despicable. At the same time, something soft died, quietly. Muffled. 

“But no,” he finished, slowly shaking his head. “It wasn’t a trophy, it wasn’t a triumph. It’s a fucking memento, isn’t it, Henry?”

Henry just looked at him; his blue eyes dark and clouded like the skies in August, right before a storm. 

“It’s a-” Hans gestured vaguely. “It’s a fucking keepsake.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Henry said, still and unmoving; only his chest was heaving in wild, uneven breaths. 

“Don’t I?” A smirk, mocking, danced on Hans’ lips. He wished he could have stopped it; it felt cruel and horrid and shit. “What happened at Trosky?” Hans asked, half-whisper, half-hiss. “You told me you killed him but nothing more. What else are you hiding?”

A shadow passed over Henry’s face: anger and confusion and fear.

“He tortured you, didn’t he? Again. Must have had a knack for it.” Hans kept his voice cruel. “You made me feel so bad for even mentioning Vranik…” He shook his head, looking deeply into Henry’s eyes. “While it seems I shouldn’t have.”

“Hans-”

“Because, apparently, you liked it.” He shrugged. “Liked it enough to keep a fucking token to remember it by. To keep it all a secret from me, and then throw it into the faces of some thugs with, what, pride?”

Henry swallowed. Didn’t say anything—just looked at Hans with something between shock and disgust. 

“Was it better the first time or the second? Back when he had that dog of his watch, or when Erik wasn’t there?”

Henry shook his head slowly; backed away two paces more. 

“I shouldn’t have told you anything, anything at all,” he whispered, rough and wavering.

“I’m pretty sure you should tell me everything, truth be told, Henry,” Capon added, his gaze cold and disdainful. “I am your lord, after all, and the sole reason you’re even here.”

Henry stood still for a second more; then, he nodded.

“Aye,” he said, and it came out raspy and resigned. “You’re right, Sir Hans. You’re right.”

“See? All of this ridiculousness could have been prevented if you simply stuck to what you preach, and did not lie to me.”

“Aye,” Henry said. The room was completely dark—but still, Hans could see him move.

He grabbed his pack and his sword from the chair by the table, and coat from the bedside—and without saying anything else, turned on his heel and left the room, leaving the door open; letting the faint moonlight in.

Just like that, he left. Just like that, Hans was alone. 

Good riddance, Hans thought. You wretched liar.

I don’t need you.

One breath: one shaky exhale. One, and Hans’ felt the adrenaline give way to the sudden, sickening feeling of guilt. 

Emptiness.

He opened his mouth to say something, even though there was no longer anyone to tell it to; closed it, inhaling with a shake threatening to turn into a sob. 

He wanted to say the most hurtful thing— and so, it seems he succeeded. 

And he would sleep alone, that night; haunted by his own cruelty; the jarring calling of unknown birds behind the wooden shutters—and that shadow that came over Henry’s bright eyes imprinted in his mind. A shadow which was nothing else but simple, genuine heartbreak. 

Henry was too embarrassed to ask for another bed—or even a corner—to sleep in. He didn’t have the courage or the energy to stay up, drinking and jesting with Adder or Godwin or Brabant. Didn't have the heart to pretend: to be alright, to be unbothered, to be anything else but himself and all that he felt. 

And so, clutching his pouch and his coat desperately, he walked to the small forge in the Den’s inner yard. Passed the horses: all of them in sudden, slight unrest against his frantic pulse and uneven breath. 

Settled, in the soft, complete dark, with his back against the wooden wall—the old, beaten anvil at his side. Mutt at his feet, like countless lonesome nights before. 

Henry  hid his face in his hands, rough and lowly and unwanted. 

Looked up at the skies filled with stars: with constellations that he knew how to use to get home—even though his home was cinders and bones now—but couldn't name.

He felt stupid, again, and simple, and ordinary. He felt alone—he felt hurt. Betrayed.

Looking up at the stars twinkling and glittering across the darkness of the summer’s night, as if in open mockery of his grief, Henry clenched his jaw—wrapped his coat around his arms—and cried, just for a short, bitter moment, before swallowing his tears and lying down to sleep. 

Sleep, stubbornly, did not want to come. 

It all haunted him: the Trosky cell, and the gallows, and the cold solitude of his room while the feast bloomed and raged beyond the stone walls. The cold rain and freezing wind, sneaking under his shirt, biting at his ribs. The horrid realisation he wasn’t worthy of anything—he didn’t mean anything. The stolen, begged for glances.

The rubble of Nebakov: heavy, sharp, damning. Deserved, as it crushed his back to gore.

The quiet, gut wrenching horror of Maleshov, as he knew all was lost; Henry dead, and gone, and his no more.  

Hans felt nauseous. 

Why are you like this? He berated himself, hiding his face in his hands as he sat on Henry’s bed; his own still bare and empty, without the mattress or covers. 

It’s all about him, he thought, pulling at his hair. He’s all that matters and all you care about,  and yet you hurt him, you hurt him, you hurt him. 

How sad. How horribly fucking sad. 

He lied down, still in  his clothes, at the very edge of the bed—as if he didn’t deserve to disrobe, as if he didn’t deserve to take up more of it,  as if he didn’t deserve any comfort at all—and, curling in search of any warmth, fell into a shaky, uneasy sleep. 

Like a deer fawn, abandoned, in the cold thicket.  

When Hans woke up, shaky and alone, it was still dark: dawn far away, cruel and impossible to reach. He couldn’t stand being in that bed even for a second longer: it felt undeserved. It felt as if he was violating something he had  no right to.

You hurt him, so deeply, his own voice echoed out in his tired, worried head. And then you  have the gall to lie down in his own bed, warm and smelling like him, while he’s…

He’s where, Capon? Huh? Where is he?

Suddenly, Hans felt scared. He assumed Henry went to sleep in some different spot, different bed: but where? He wouldn’t have just joined the rest of the Pack—Hans couldn't imagine him lying down next to snoring Janosh or Adder, drooling into his pillow, or Brabant.

Did he go to the baths?

Did he sneak, given free and comfortable reign before, into the tent where Anna slept? Or Margaret, or the other girls? Did he embrace one of them, warm and soft and willing, drowning his anger in pleasure? 

Hans shook his head. It was ridiculous—of course he didn't.

Perhaps he took Pebbles and rode off, cursing his name. Abandoning the cause he had no reason to fight for, if  his loyalty was ripped from him. Rode off, into the night, to Kuttenberg or Prague, and did not look back. Because why would he. 

And it was all Hans’ fault, again. 

As always. 

He inhaled, slowly—and stood up. 

“Get a hold of yourself,” he muttered, clenching his fists. “Take some accountability for once in your fucking life.”

He’s done so much for you, he thought, leaving the room. The least you can do is not wallow in self-pity. 

Hans turned towards the stairs: at least this once, he wanted to be the one to bring them back into balance again.

Once outside, in the cool, starry night, he stood helplessly: uncertain where to go. Looked up at the stars: constellations he could name but couldn’t use to find his way home. Or anywhere. 

Suddenly, a shape in the darkness: tail wagging. Waiting. 

“Eh, boy?” Hans whispered and tried to call Mutt towards him but the dog, still wagging his tail, just stood there. Then, impatiently ran in a circle, looking at Hans. “Oh.”

He followed Mutt: a bit away from the Den and the baths, to the meadow near the line of the trees. 

Henry turned around, ready to talk to his dog—and looked up right at Hans, surprised. 

“Can I sit with you?” Hans asked, simply, and it came out very quiet and very weak. He felt like a child.

Henry took a moment to reply. 

“There’s dew on the grass already,” he said, at last. Wiped his cheek, roughly, with the back of his hand. “You’ll get wet.”

“I’ll live,” Hans shrugged and took a step closer: got ready to sit down in the grass next to Henry.

“Wait, uh, wait,” Henry took off the coat he was wearing: spread it on the grass. “There you go.”

“You didn’t have to…” Capon sat down, awkwardly, feeling even stupider than before. “I’m not-”

“And have you catch a cold?” Henry was looking somewhere to the side. “It’s alright. I need to launder it anyway.”

They sat in the silence for a longer moment: the night was peaceful and the stars glimmered in the skies, foretelling another hot day. 

“I’m sorry,” Hans said, feeling his heartbeat in his fingertips. “I really am. I said the worst thing that came to mind. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

Henry was turning a long stem of grass in his fingers; tied it around itself a couple of times, before it snapped. 

“It was unfair and cruel and horrible,” Hans continued. “And there is no justification for any of it… I can only apologise and hope that… Some day,” he felt his voice break, “some day you’ll forgive me.”

Henry sighed; threw the snapped grass aside. Pulled another stem out. 

“I’ve already…” he cleared his throat and sighed again. “I’ve already forgiven you, Hans. It’s alright. You were… Right, partially, at least.”

“I really wasn’t,” Hans shook his head. “I said that shit because I was rattled and… I don’t even know. I felt small. And I lashed out.”

“You were cruel, yes,” Henry watched as Mutt ran to them and sat by Hans’ legs. “But you weren’t exactly in the wrong. I wasn’t as… Forthcoming as I should have been.”

“You’re allowed to keep things to yourself,” Capon said. “Keep secrets, even. I am not… Entitled to everything. To the whole of you,” he felt his throat tighten, threatening to turn into a sob; had to stop speaking. 

Henry turned to him, slowly—bumped his shoulder into his. 

“It’s alright,” he repeated. “But I’m very thankful that you apologised…” Henry looked at the stars above them. “I think we both should shoot for sainthood. Saint Henry and Saint Hans, patrons of stupid fights and masterful reconciliation.”

“Not sure about the masterful part,” Hans replied, sheepishly. “But I’m trying.”

“I know.”

Silence fell, again: but more comfortable this time. Mutt curled up at Hans’ feet, partially on his boots and partially on Henry’s coat.

“We should try and get some sleep if we want to win the contest tomorrow,” Henry said suddenly. “Can you imagine what we’ll have to put up with if it’s Adder who wins? Or Dry Devil?”

“Oh, all Saints in Heavens,” Hans laughed. “Or Brabant?”

“Of courze, who elze could ‘ave won, if not ze great Chevalier D’Arrezo!” Henry tried parroting the baron’s accent; Hans hid his face in his hands to stop himself from laughing so loud he’d wake the whole Den up.  “Oh, I’m going to fucking destroy him in the arm wrestling tomorrow,” Henry finished, satisfied. “Squash him like a little French worm.”

“And I’m getting that hat,” Capon said. “With all respect to the skills of other esteemed contestants, no one’s got a chance to beat me at this shit!”

“Well… We’ll see,” Henry shrugged. “I happen to have the best bow in the province, you know.”

They sat next to each other in the grass for a moment more—the stars above them twinkling—and then Henry clicked his tongue, hesitant.

“There’s one issue, though,” he said, scratching his neck in a slight embarrassment. “I went by the baths before… The mattress and the covers, they didn’t… Dry.”

“What? How? The day was so hot?”

“Aye,” Henry sighed. “Anna said she accidentally dropped them back into the tub filled with water when she went to get them and bring them to the Den.”

“Oh.”

“She was very apologetic about it, though.”

“I can imagine…” Hans focused on petting Mutt’s side. “Well, uh.”

“I can sleep on the floor,” Henry said. “The dawn’s close, anyway. I’ll be alright.”

“Henry, I behaved like a prick and you think I will let you sleep on the floor? No way.”

Henry looked at him; even in the darkness, his eyes were bright. 

“Then…”

“Well, I would offer to sleep on the floor, of course, but there are certain limits to how much a man of my rank can sacrifice,” he said, solemnly. “I’m already eating breakfast like a peasant. My skin’s so tan I look like I’m working in the fields. Soon, God forbid, I’ll have freckles.”

“Oh, God forbid,” Henry laughed quietly. 

“So, I’m afraid you will have to bear sharing your bed with me for one night more, Henry. But! I promise I will make it up to you, once we’re back in Rattay.”

“Oh, aye, you should. Generously!” He laughed. “Come on.”

Henry stood up—reached out to offer Hans his hand and get him up. 

Hans looked up: let himself, for a heartbeat or two, stare at Henry’s face, surrounded by the glimmering stars. And then took his hand.

Hans got into the bed first: settled, slightly pressed to the wall.

“It’s much easier without the mess on my back,” he said. “Don’t have to worry about smearing it everywhere.”

“Aye, you only have my kicking to worry about.”

“And you my snoring,” Hans giggled as Henry got into the bed as well. 

“That’s why I sleep on my stomach,” even in the darkness, Henry’s smile was audible in his voice. “Jesus, why are your legs so cold?”

“They’re not,” Hans scoffed. “Yours are just unusually warm.”

“They’re normal temperature, thank you very much. Yours are cold!”

“Oh, complain more!” Hans elbowed him in the ribs, making Henry wheeze. “See if you wake up in one piece.”

“Don’t threaten me, noble sir, without a single weapon on your mighty person…”

“My elbow’s weapon enough,” Capon giggled and tried his attack once again: Henry stopped it, catching him by the wrist and immobilising his arm. 

“And just like that, disarmed!”

“Oh, let go of me, you brute!”

“Brute!” Henry gasped. “Beware, or I will show you how much of a brute I can be… Clearly you don’t know the tale…” he whispered, dramatically, “of the… Skalitz Tickler…”

Hans snorted in uncontrolled laughter, kicking his legs under the covers. 

“The things you say, Henry…” he wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “But, just so we are clear… If you try to tickle me, I will have you quartered.”

“Aye, I wouldn’t dare,” Henry replied, satisfied.

A longer moment of silence: behind the shuttered windows, dawn slowly climbed across the skies. 

“Hans?” Henry whispered.

“Mhmm?” The young lord was already nearly asleep, eyes closed.

“I need to tell you something…”

“Mhm?”

“You…” Henry tried not to smile too much. “You do have freckles already.”

A pause: loud, huffing exhale. 

“Mhnnno I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” Henry laughed quietly, looking at the sleepy man just inches away from him. “Three to be exact.”

Hans just shook his head, slowly drifting off again.

“I counted,” Henry whispered. 

Hans pressed his face into the bed to hide the way his cheeks bloomed in red—even though Henry couldn’t see it in the darkness even if he wanted to—and giggling into their pillow, fell asleep. 

Henry listened to his breathing for a moment more: then, fell asleep, into sleep free of nightmares and pain.

This time Henry woke up first: pushed to the edge of the bed, with Hans sprawled mercilessly and taking up most of the space. He rolled off the bed—and stretched, yawning loudly, on purpose.

“Ugh,” Hans moaned, groggy, opening his eyes. “Is it time to get up already..?”

“Aye, well, we went to bed really late,” Henry said, reaching for his clothes. “You’re free to sleep in… I’ll go win the contest in the meantime.”

Laughing, Hans got out of the bed.

“Today, my dear page, you will taste defeat worse than anything you can imagine,” he said, dressing, “and given that defeat will happen at the hands of your lord, you will have no choice! But to rejoice!”

“Nice rhyming,” Henry stretched again. “You should write poetry.”

“You should shut up, lest I kick your insolent arse! Won’t be able to sit for days!”

“Aye, aye…”

Laughing, shoulder to shoulder, they went downstairs.

“Aye, then…” Kubyenka swayed slightly. “Let’s make the first round the shooting, so that our dear father here can stop getting his bald head assaulted by the sun.”

“Surely, a shot-through hat will look precisely like something a shunned priest ought to wear,” Godwin sighed.

“Then…” Kubyenka scratched his stomach absent-mindedly. “Arm wrestling, we agreed on?”

“Yes, yes,” Janosh nodded quickly. 

“The stealing… We should make that an ongoing thing, throughout the day,” Henry said. “It’s not like we can announce, ready, now, steal! Who’s the most clever and sneaky about it, wins. Steal something meaningful to someone else from the group.”

The pack nodded.

“Dice?” Hans asked.

“With this bunch of cheating bastards? No,” Dry Devil shook his head. “We’ll make the final round… Drinking.”

“Beautiful and very smart idea,” Kubyenka nodded.

“Ale będzie rzygane, jak stąd do Krakowa,” Adder laughed to himself. 

“Final round, yes, good,” Janosh shook his head. “But before, eh? What more?”

“A quintain, perhaps?” Hans asked.

Dry Devil contemplated for a moment—then nodded.

“A what?” Henry asked. 

“Ye sit a bastard on a horse and try to throw him off with a lance,” he explained.

“That’s, Jesus,” Hans shook his head. “Lance, yes, but perhaps we should stick to, like… A bucket, stuck on a pole, or something.”

“Or a Pole,” Dry Devil laughed. “Eh, Adder?”

“Ja się na pal nie nadaję… To ja tu jestem od nadziewania, jak już, a nie bycia nadziewanym,” Adder shook his head. “Dawać Francuzika na konika, będziemy go zrzucać!”

“Adder say, Brabant, you go sit on horse, we try to throw you off.”

Brabant gasped.

“Mais, non! C’est pas… It is not, as you say… I cannot…”

“It should be someone who’s not part of the contest, eh?”

“Aye,” Dry Devil nodded. “Whoever loses the most up to that point… On the horse ye go.”

“Do we have to actually involve a horse in this?” Henry asked. “Let’s just sit someone on a pole, and then..”

Adder giggled, but no one paid any mind to it—only Janosh shook his head, trying not to laugh as well. 

“We can put something together, surely,” Godwin chimed in. “No need to actually involve a horse in this whole affair, Henry is right.”

“Aye… What else?”

A moment of silence as they all tried to come up with some more games; the only sound was the faraway calling of a buzzard. 

“I know!” Henry exclaimed, peaceful smile on his face. “Spitting!”

“What?” Hans asked, confused.

“Enough of all those noble games, cuntains or whatnot…” Henry explained. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had a spitting contest? See who can spit the farthest?”

“O, i to jest mądry pomysł!” Adder nodded. “Łeb na karku, łeb na karku…”

“Aye, fair,” Dry Devil said. “That should be enough, eh?”

The pack all looked at each other—and nodded in agreement. 

Hans watched, curiously, as Adder and Dry Devil set off to put together some wooden structure sturdy enough to seat a grown man—that wouldn't also just impale the wretch in the process—and tried not to think too hard about the night before. 

When Henry and him slept in one bed, again.

It seemed so natural to Henry: which was not entirely surprising, truth be told, given he probably had to share a bed many times in the past, with family or even just strangers, in taverns.

Hans never shared a bed with anyone. 

Sleeping next to someone else was strange and new: and would be probably entirely unbearable, if that someone was anyone else but Henry. It was so precious—and Hans really wished he could just see it as such.

Instead, in his head, he once again got lost in worrying about how it all reflected on him, again. 

Going to bed with my squire… Well, in a very chaste sense, of course… 

It did sting, a bit. His pride felt a little bit… Encroached on. 

Suddenly, he flinched: surprised by Henry materialising right next to him like some sort of apparition. 

“We’ve not established a prize, eh?” Henry asked, hands tucked into his belt. 

“No,” Hans shrugged. “I think winning is prize enough.”

“I agree!”

“Eh, if I only had the time…” Hans caught himself saying. “I could have ridden to Bohunowitz… Ask Karolina if she'd like to be the lady of our tournament…”

“Who?”

“Oh, haven’t I told you?” Hans turned to him. You imbecile, why are you even doing this. “While you were gone… The only reason I knew that abandoned camp was because I had to find a… Secluded spot, to spend some time with this pretty girl I met.”

“You… Met?”

“Aye,” Hans shrugged. “Karolina’s her name. A darling, really, even if a bit… Wild in the sheets.”

“I see,” Henry nodded. Then, he laughed. “You’ve… Shown her, what a true member of nobility looks like?”

“Oh, aye!” Capon laughed as well. 

He felt his pride recover a bit: succeed at licking its wounds.

“Wasn’t… The butcher’s daughter, in Rattay, also called Karolina?” Henry asked, slowly.

“Aye! Ha!” Hans shook his head, a bit too dramatically for his own good. “That’s why it’s my favourite name! Seems to bring me luck! Wild, those Karolinas, trust me.”

“Aye, I’m sure… I’ve heard most of it, truth be told. Standing by the window and all.” Henry seemed to think about something for a moment. “Bohunowitz’s not that far… We could still go and ask her.”

“Oh, well,” Hans inhaled sharply. Fuck! “I don’t think there’s time.”

“Shame… I would love to meet her!” Henry clicked his tongue. “Imagine, if she agreed… And we both won… If she’s as wild as you say…”

Oh, God. Oh. Fuck.  

“Well, uh,” Hans turned on his heel, trying to hide how red he got. “Bohunowitz is actually far from here, really, if you think about it.”

“Aye, aye,” Henry laughed. “Certainly, my lord.”

“I’ll go, uh, get the mattress covers,” he said. “So you can stitch them up again, and all. They must be dry by now, no?”

“Certainly, my lord,” Henry repeated. 

Hans walked up to the baths, heart beating wildly: looking, frantically, for Anna. Luckily the fates were kind: the girl was just passing, busy with tidying the space.

“Oh, Sir Hans!” She smiled. “Better mood today?”

“Aye, I… Uhm, I guess.”

“Uh-oh…”

“So… Do you know… A Karolina?”

Anna looked at him, brows slightly furrowed.

“No, I don’t,” she shook her head. “And even if I did, I’m sure she didn’t actually do it.”

“Huh?”

“Well, I-”

“No, no, Hans chuckled. “I’m just, uh… There’s this little, tiny… Lie I told.”

“Uh-oh,” the girl repeated, eyeing him attentively. 

“I told Henry,” he really hated coming clean about things like that. “That I met a very nice girl… Called Karolina. He sort of, well, called my bluff.”

“Met?”

“Aye… Biblically.”

“I see,” Anna giggled. “And he called your bluff how?”

“Asked to meet her,” Hans groaned.

“Oh, shit,” the girl laughed. “Oh, no!”

“My thoughts exactly…”

“Well,” the girl grinned. “I have a friend who would not oppose being called Karolina, actually… In exchange for a favour.”

“A favour?”

“Aye, aren’t nobles good at that?”

“I suppose…”

“Well, then thank me, Sir Hans, and off you go,” she put her hands on her hips. “Go win that silly tournament you’ve all came up with, and let me take care of making your silly little lie a little bit more believable.”

“Thank you, Anna.”

“Oh, but you’re absolutely welcome. After all, we’re friends, no?”

Hans smiled, despite himself. 

Tried very, very hard, not to think about the shit he gave Henry about lying, just a couple of hours prior.

Henry looked up: the magpie nest, bigger than he expected, was really high up. Even without the sun shining into his eyes relentlessly, it would be a very difficult shot.

Kubyenka was first: as he was rather drunk already, his bolt dug into the tree relatively close to the hat—but definitely not close enough.

Janosh and Adder tried their luck as well; Adder, especially, seemed to take it very seriously. 

“Kurwa!” He shouted as his aim proved to be worse than Kubyenka’s. “Co za gówno! Kurwa! Trochę w lewo, kurwa, i bym trafił!”

Dry Devil scoffed: spanned his crossbow, put the bolt in, aimed with one eye closed… And missed. 

“What?” He furrowed his brows. “Ridiculous!”

Brabant didn’t even try: said something about an injury during the defence of Kuttenberg that left his elbow overly sensitive, but no one was listening. 

“Well, well,” Hans put his hands on his hips. “Henry, please pass me the bow… Let me show you all what true marksmanship looks like.”

“I’m going first,” Henry objected.

“We can go at the same time.”

“We’re sharing a bow,” Henry sighed. “Can’t go at the same time.”

Hans giggled.

Oh, Henry thought, and felt his ears sting. 

Then, he tried: and missed. His arrow grazed the nest—but did not topple it. 

Admittedly, for all his nest-shooting adventures, he usually had to shoot at least a couple of times before he got it. Not that he’d ever admit that. 

“Goodness, really,” Hans shook his head. “Give me that.”

Gracefully—patiently, with levels of patience Capon had only for the bow and nothing else—he drew the bowstring, aimed, and released. With a soft whoosh, the arrow found its way perfectly through both the nest and the hat: making it fall down with the momentum. 

Reaching for the hat, brooch shining in the sun, Capon bowed theatrically. 

“See? Easy,” he grinned, beaming with pride. 

Smug bastard, Henry thought tenderly, beaming with pride as well.

A dice table was dragged to the side, into the shade: two stools pulled up, and an order of contestants planned for the arm wrestling part. 

With the sun biting at their necks and the bathhouse girls cheering them on, the Pack clashed: grunts and groans and curses, and laughter, as one by one, they all lost to Henry. 

No surprise there, Hans thought to himself, looking at Henry’s bicep. He had been looking at it for a good half hour now. Had no plans to stop. 

Both the sword and the forge were clear in Henry’s muscles: his arms were toned, hard, tried in battle. Less padded than the rest of him—and that rest of him Hans knew by heart, too, especially the way Henry’s sides would slightly roll over his braies, or the way his stomach looked when he’d lean back in a chair, lazily, stretching, and his shirt would ride up a bit… Soft, and tempting, and with the trail of hair that, unceremoniously, made Capon’s mouth water.  

“Well, Sir Hans, you’re up,” Anna grinned, keeping tally. 

“Ugh, it’s way too hot,” Henry sighed. “Come on, Sir Hans, let’s get this over with,” and, as Capon was sitting down across from him, he took off his shirt. Threw it to the side. “Sorry, but it really is hot.”

“Aye,” Hans agreed. “Unbearably so.”

You absolutely brazen beast, he thought. Tried, very hard, not to look at Henry’s chest too much. And the drop of sweat, rolling down, right between, through the hair. 

“And go!” Anna exclaimed.

And Henry pushed—relentless, strong like a bull, and really, really convinced he would win. 

Hans withstood—with considerable effort—and withstood, and withstood… And tired Henry out. Years of drawing the bow might not have made his muscles as visibly outstanding—but they afforded him much more stamina, and patience, and endurance. 

The moment Henry faltered, for half a heartbeat, Hans pushed: and among surprised gasps and loud cheers, defeated Henry with a loud thud of his arm against the table.

The way Henry looked at him, wide-eyed and in disbelief, was sweeter than any prize could ever be. 

They were halfway through hoisting Kubyenka up on the wooden structure for the quintain—as he volunteered, finding the idea incredibly amusing, after Brabant mysteriously made himself scarce—when Anna grabbed Hans slightly by the elbow. 

“She’s here,” she whispered conspiratorially, “by the baths, talking with Margaret. Go, I’ll distract Henry if he tries looking for you.”

“What am I-” Hans got flustered. “What am I supposed to say to her?”

“Oh, she knows everything already. Just go greet her, at least try to be a little bit chivalrous,” giggling and shaking her head, Anna pushed him towards the baths. 

Henry looked around: Hans was suddenly gone. Somehow—he was certain he kept him in his field of vision all the time—and now he couldn’t find him anywhere. 

Kubyenka held onto dear life: instead of a lance, the Pack just used a long, straight branch, to have their turn at trying to throw him off the stricture. 

Henry would have won, again: if not for the fact that Hans was gone, and he got distracted. Adder won, howling in laughter and exclaiming phrases that Janosh didn’t even attempt to translate. 

Suddenly, Henry spotted Hans talking to someone by the baths: a tall woman, with her hair let down in surprising disregard for social convention, and a small, mischievous smirk on her face. A very, very beautiful face.

Fuck, Henry thought to himself. He wasn’t lying. I was so fucking sure he was lying. 

“Henry!” Anna called out to him. “Henry! Hey!”

But he wasn’t listening—he was already halfway to the baths.

“Sir Hans,” he nodded politely. “You missed the quintain.”

“Aye, well,” Capon shrugged. “There are things more important than some silly games, you know.”

Henry tried not to laugh.

“Karolina, dove, this is Henry,” Hans gestured towards him. “My personal bodyguard.”

“Pleased to meet you, Henry,” the woman smiled. Her hair was the exact shade, nearly, as Capon. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Oh, well,” Henry grinned. “Knowing my lord, probably not the most flattering things.”

“Henry!” Hans furrowed his brows. “Don’t think me so simple.”

“Oh, no,” Karolina laughed, and it was a very pretty laughter. “Only good things, I swear. Made me even more curious, really…”

The way she looked at him sent a small shiver down his spine.

The way Hans looked at her—badly reined in surprise, nearly outrage—sent another. 

“Uhm, well,” Capon gestured vaguely towards the rest of the pack. “The first round of the drinking contest is about to begin, Henry, so we should, uh, go.”

“Oh!” Karolina’s eyes lit up. “What’s the tally? What’s the score?”

“Well, I forfeited the quintain, so I’m not sure,” Hans scowled. “Still, I'm sure I’ll win.”

“So…” She smiled—at Capon, and then at Henry. “Would it be horribly blasphemous if I offered to… Bless the winner with a kiss?”

“As I've said, I’m sure I’ll win,” Hans repeated, not looking at Henry.

“Henry?” Karolina looked at him attentively. “What’s the matter? Why the frown?”

“Well, uh,” Henry shrugged. “It’s just that blasphemy, technically-”

“No, no!” Capon groaned. “Don’t bore the lady to death with your monastery wisdom, Henry.”

“Monastery?” Karolina’s eyes lit up. Like a fox, spotting a hen outside the coop, unsupervised. 

“What I wanted to say,” Henry grinned, twice as wide seeing the face Hans made, “is that it would be the greatest honour, dear lady, to have such a prize to look forward to. Given that I will, certainly, win.”

“You will not,” Hans scoffed.

“In my lord’s honour, of course!”

“Shut up about honour, you absolute-”

Suddenly, they were interrupted by giggling. It was Anna, suddenly standing right next to them—and, undeniably, blushing.

“You should go, the drinking’s begun,” she said. “I will happily take care of Karolina until the next round.”

For a moment, Henry wondered why the hell the girl was blushing, suddenly.

And what reason did she have to keep looking, sneakily, at Karolina’s cleavage?

Drinking in the sun was not a good idea. 

They didn’t even know who won—all they knew was that, even after the first round, everyone was drunk. 

Thank God they chose to pace themselves and split that one wager into two rounds.

Zizka arrived, somewhere between tankards, and just laughed at them, shaking his head. 

“All that’s left…” Kubyenka muttered. “Is that… Uh… Spitting contest, and then, back to drinking, and—hic— we will have a winner.”

“God have mercy on us all,” Godwin sighed. He was too drunk, truth be told, to worry: his shot-through hat skewed on his head and a glow to his cheeks that only good booze could bring out.  

“We should go,” Henry said, swallowing down a beer-fuelled belch. “Up on the balcony… And we will spit from there, and… Draw the lines in the dirt. Who got where.”

“Isn’t it a bit…” Hans cleared his throat. “You know… Disgusting?”

Henry turned to him—eyes slightly unfocused already—and grinned.

“Aye, I told you… Us, simple folk, and our simple games…”

“No, no,” Hans gestured wildly. “I will win that as well! I will.”

He didn’t win. 

All he could do was stare.

At first, all that Capon could think about was how disgusting it was: the idea, the act, the way they all tried to outdo each other. The way the spit landed onto the dirt and Brabant, standing downstairs, marked it with a line—embarrassed and even more disgusted than Capon. 

But then: the summer heat and the wine of the first round… And the way Henry’s jaw clenched when he gathered spit in his mouth…

Oh, God, Hans thought, feeling a very surprising stirring in the pit of his stomach. 

Somehow, in all of his fantasies, he never thought about… That.

And that… Was very tempting indeed.

“Your turn,” Henry laughed, swaying slightly. 

“No, I’m not even…” Hans shook his head. “Not much spitting in my adolescence, trust me. This is so foreign to me, it doesn’t even make sense to try.”

“Wait, what?” Henry looked at him, surprised. “What do you mean, not much spitting?”

“Best fucking pastime when I was a boy,” Dry Devil chimed in. “We’d check who can spit over the fucking creek, little shits that we were.”

“Well,” Hans shrugged. “Not in Rattay.”

“In Skalitz…” Henry started suddenly, grabbing the wooden balustrade to keep balance. “We’d play this game… Like tag,” he said, giggling. “But the goal of chasing each other was to pin the other boy down and-”

He started laughing—and Adder and Dry Devil did too, clearly knowing what he meant.

“What?” Hans asked.

“Well, sort off…” Henry pinched the bridge of his nose, laughing still. “Threaten to, uh, spit in his face.”

“Doesn’t seem very fun to play,” Capon said, cross. 

“Oh, it was! Not for the fellah pinned down, though.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, was all that Hans could think.

And then, that round, it was Henry who won, again. 

As the Pack prepared the second round of drinking, Hans looked across the grounds to watch Karolina and Anna talk over a jug of, what he could only assume, was wine. Lifted from Treadlight, most likely. 

“I think I will win,” Henry grinned, suddenly by his side.

“Mhm, in your dreams.”

“You forfeited both the quint… Thing, and the spitting.”

“The spitting was stupid.”

“Aye, sure,” Henry laughed. 

“I’ll have you know,” Hans said, suddenly. “That, had we known each other as boys… You would simply never fucking catch me.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Capon shrugged. “All that threat of spitting in someone’s face like some sort of ungodly beast… You would never even catch me, Henry, because I’m faster than you. And by a lot! And that’s the true skill-”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

Too much wine, Capon, echoed in Hans’ head. Careful now.

“Is that a challenge, my lord?” Henry asked, and suddenly his voice was much lower than Hans expected.

No! No! 

You imbecile!

“Sure,” Hans shrugged. “Catch me if you can.”

Henry grinned—and it was a very wolfish grin, and it went to Capon’s head worse than the wine.

You absolute, utter, stupid imbecile.

Hans struggled, frustrated, underneath Henry’s weight; he was pinned down too successfully to wriggle away, and the more he tried, the more satisfaction he could see blooming on Henry’s face. Inches away from his. 

“Give over, you absolute brute,” he got out, through gritted teeth, trying to push Henry away; still, he didn’t even budge. He was stronger than him, when it came to brute strength and weight: months of riding and fighting and survival mirrored in his body, toned and heavy. 

Also, Hans had way too much wine. It seemed that Henry handled his booze bit better: and that was why he had him pinned to his own fucking bed now. 

“But, my lord,” Henry replied, a smirk in the corners of his mouth, as he pushed down harder. “This was your challenge, no?”

His voice was basically dripping with smug satisfaction; low and teasing and all too full of himself. It drove Hans wild—wilder than the fact that Henry’s knee was planted right between his thighs, parting them and digging into the soft flesh so obscenely it made his head spin. 

“It was, ” Hans highlighted the past tense, brows furrowed, left hand trying to wriggle out of Henry’s grasp above his head. “Then let’s say you won, alright?!”

“Did I?” Henry smiled, looking into his eyes. His grasp on Hans’ wrists tightened for a second; purposeful and shameless. 

“Barely,” Hans tried to keep up appearances. “I’m letting you win.”

“Mhm…” Henry lowered his head just an inch more; Hans swallowed, hard. 

“You’re such an idiot,” Hans heard himself say before he could bite his own tongue. Henry’s eyebrows raised in surprise—then, his grin got wider. “Give- Give over!”

Henry’s eyes narrowed—and then, some spark set in. An idea, blooming out of an unfortunately planted seed. A bad idea—but too tempting to refuse. 

Hans felt his breath hitch in his lungs somewhere as he realised what was happening. In that short moment of silence, still looking him intensely in the eyes, Henry’s jaw clenched slightly: his mouth moved, his tongue swirling somewhere within it. 

He was gathering spit.  

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Hans squealed, voice a tone higher than he expected. “You absolute buffoon, don’t even fucking- Don’t even think about it!”

The corners of Henry’s eyes narrowed in a mischievous smile. He lowered his face another inch. Hans felt a sort of panic set in—started to desperately try to wriggle out again from underneath Henry. Still, to no avail; if anything, it seemed his shaking and wriggling only drove him deeper into Henry’s grasp. 

“I’ll have your fucking head for it!” He threatened, feeling his voice nearly break. He tried to at least get away from Henry’s knee digging into the soft flesh of his thigh, but all he achieved was to rub himself against it. It was horrible: so embarrassing, so unbecoming! 

Henry smiled, mouth still closed and focused at the task, holding the spit. He shrugged, smug. 

“Henry, I mean it!” Hans cried out, half-hushed; angry.

Henry let his head drop, and his shoulders shook with muffled laughter: when he looked up again, inches away from Hans’ face, he swallowed and grinned.

“Aye, Sir Hans, aye,” he said, voice low and teasing, “if you yield.”

“I yield,” Hans spat out, angry. He looked at Henry’s mouth and caught himself fixated enough to forget what more he was about to say.

“Last time I checked, spitting on someone, noble or not, doesn’t cost you your head…” Henry teased. 

“Well, then whipped.”

Henry laughed—Hans felt his chest against his as that barking laughter came through it in waves. 

“Do you yield?”

“Yes, I do, you absolute-”

Henry’s grasp on his wrist lessened in intensity—he felt him push himself off his body, the bed beneath them giving off a single, meek creak. 

“Wait-”

Hans shocked himself. He did not plan to say it—did not plan to feel the way he felt as Henry pulled away. Henry just looked at him, utter focus in his eyes, eyebrows slightly raised. Hans felt a thousand thoughts race through his mind: but the weight of Henry against him muted them all out, no matter how rational.

He looked at his mouth again; the tension of the whole day reverberated through every bone in his body and every hair standing on his neck. Hans swallowed, feverishly, and decided to doom himself completely. 

“Do it.”

Henry froze—Hans could feel his muscles tense against his legs; his fingers curl around his wrist slightly harder again, unwillingly. There was a slight surprise in his gaze, some sort of bafflement at what must have been, after all, just a joke. 

“Sir Hans,” Henry started, voice a bit too raspy for his own good. “If you wish to have me whipped, there’s a thousand other reasons to be found.”

“Do I have to order you?” Hans felt his cheeks and ears burn as they turned to crimson. He puffed up his chest, and it rose enough to push against Henry’s—he pressed his wrists deeper into the softness of the bed beneath them, dragging Henry’s hands with them, riling him up. 

Henry did not say anything—just his eyes pierced Hans nauseatingly, with an intensity that made his head spin. He was looking for any sign—any—that his lord was being serious.

“Do it,” Hans hissed, and it was a half whisper and half order.

Henry’s body felt heavier against his, but he did not say anything, and he did not move an inch. His mouth, previously slightly parted in a surprised smirk, now closed diligently. 

“Do it,” Hans said, feeling his heart in his throat.

Henry inhaled, still not saying anything.

“Spit in my mouth.”

Oh.

Henry was drunk—and it was immediately visible that he had trouble digesting what he just heard; he thought about it, then inhaled, then a shock of understanding started to form and-

“WHERE THE FUCK! Is my crossbow! Ye filthy fucking bastards!” Dry Devil’s abrupt, booming screaming tore through the Den—his furious heavy steps echoed on the stairs. “I’ll tear ye limb from fucking limb and feed you to the dogs!”

“Oh, shit,” Henry gasped, scrambling and jumping off the bed—off Hans—and finding himself in between panic and a fit of laughter. “Oh shit! He’ll kill me,” he ran towards his own bed. Hans watched puzzled and entirely frozen: too stunned to even say anything.

Henry leaned down and pulled out Dry Devil’s crossbow from underneath his bed—snorted in mad laughter—and frantically turned to the window. 

“God be with you, Sir Hans!” He exclaimed.

And, saying that: jumped out of the window. Hans could hear him landing with a loud thud and a groan in the hay below. 

The doors opened with a crashing sound: furious Dry Devil walked in, already panting in fury. 

“I know he fucking took it,” he shouted, rough, and looked around the room: clearly surprised Henry wasn’t there. “Where-”

Then, his eyes turned to Hans: who was still frozen, sprawled across his bed. Hair tousled—clothes in disarray: shirt that rode up his body, showing off his hipbone and a bit of stomach, one shoe off after the struggle to get out from beneath Henry’s weight.

“What the-” Dry Devil looked at him, brows furrowed. “If I caught ye with yer cock in yer hand, I would have-”

“No, no!” Hans coughed out. “No! That’s- I-”

Dry Devil huffed—muttered a string of curses under his breath—and turned around to run downstairs.

Get a hold of yourself, Hans thought, feverishly, as he made his way downstairs. 

The second round of drinking was the worst idea any of them could have. No one was even keeping the score anymore: even Anna, cheeks flushed, waved off any attempts at recalling the tally. 

Karolina—or whatever her actual, real name was—was laughing, too, a pleasant blush on her pretty features.

She truly is pretty… Hans thought. Felt, very directly, how long it had been since he-

“With Zizka’s back, we are so fucked,” Henry giggled. “We will be so hungover tomorrow…”

“Speak for yourself, you beast,” Hans shrugged. “I’m doing—hic—well.”

“Listen, Sir Hans,” Henry grabbed his elbow, suddenly: it sent a shiver up his arm like a spark from a fireplace. “Let’s be smart about it, eh?”

“About what?”

“The hangover… I’ve got a decoction, in my saddlebags… It’ll keep us fresh and ready in the morning, like newborn babes!”

“Isn’t that, a bit…”

“It’s not cheating,” Henry laughed, pulling him by the arm. “No one’s keeping a score anymore… Let’s go! Please!”

“Wait,” Henry giggled. “I really need to piss.”

“Ugh, Henry,” Hans rolled his eyes. “I’ll go get that stupid flask. And it better work the way you say it does!”

“Aye, aye…”

Hans rummaged through the bags by Henry’s saddle—felt Pebbles’ judgemental gaze on his back—and finally, under a wild assortment of herbs and books and trinkets, he found a flask.

Walked back to Henry, praying he was done. 

“There you go,” he said, trying not to roll his eyes. 

Henry drank, loud and greedy, quenching his thirst as well—and then, gasped. Started laughing, swaying.

“Shit, wrong flask! None of that for you, my lord,” he laughed. “Oh, God…”

“What?” Hans felt his heart pounding in his chest like a drum. “It’s not… Fuck, Henry, it’s not poison, is it?”

“No, it’s, uh…” Henry giggled. “It’s a… A thing I tried… With wormwood and such…It… Tastes funny. Shouldn’t have… Drunk that…”

“Give me that,” Hans grabbed the bottle and sniffed it: it smelled very bitter, but a bit like schnapps, too. “What do you mean, funny?” He asked—and took a small sip, before Henry snatched the flask out of his hands. 

“Fuck,” Henry started laughing. He looked at Hans, cheeks flushed and pupils blown. “You really shouldn’t have done that, Hans! What if it…”

“What if it what?!”

“Turns us into… Chickens, or something..”

“What?”

“Chickens?” Suddenly, a female voice: Karolina, tipsy herself, walked up to them. “Sorry, fellahs, to interrupt your pissing.”

“No, it’s alright,” Henry laughed. “I piss fast.”

“Henry,” Hans groaned. Then, started laughing. Then: looked up at the starry skies. The stars were so, so pretty. 

Before any of them could react, Karolina took a sip of that strange decoction as well.

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “That tastes funny.”

“Wait, shit… Where are we going?”

“Does it matter, Henry?”

“Exactly, Hans is right! It doesn’t matter,” the girl laughed. “You went head to head, I think, in that tournament of yours…”

“Did we?”

“Or… Well… I think Henry won, actually…”

“Of course he did,” Hans sighed. “He is the best.”

“ You are the best, Hans!” Henry exclaimed, embracing him. 

“We both are! I decree!” Hans giggled. Felt Henry’s arms around him—strong, and warm, and unashamed—and then, just a little bit, sort of on his waist. 

“It’s a shepherd’s hut, if you need to know,” the girl whispered, guiding them through the night. “Abandoned! Perfect spot for… A nice conversation!”

“My lord is the best at conversation,” Henry muttered.

“But only with you, Henry!” Hans swallowed down a hiccup. The stars made sound, he was certain. He really wanted to scratch Henry’s back, suddenly, too. 

Virgin Mary, he thought. If one sip did this… Henry must be…

“Why did the shepherd abandon his hut?” Henry asked, suddenly, a very sad note in his voice.

“Oh, he changed trades!” Karolina laughed, holding them both by the hand. “He robs people at the crossroads, now.”

It was all a haze: stepping into the abandoned shepherd’s hut, clothing undone and cast aside, and laughing, and sighing, and falling into the hay.

Karolina clearly favoured Henry— not very surprising given she promised to sell the story of having already slept with Capon—and, somehow, that wasn’t painful at all. Hans was afraid he would feel out of place—a third wheel, unwanted, a burden there for no reason—but somehow, even though it was Henry that Karolina kept kissing and caressing, somehow Hans was included, too.

Well, not somehow: it was Henry, consistently and every second breath, grabbing his elbow, or placing his palm at the small of his back, or beckoning him with his gaze, or laughing under his breath and muttering his name to encourage him to follow.

It was a haze: Hans was drunk, and the wine swirled in his veins, slow and pleasurable, with the added kick of that strange potion—but Henry was… Drunk wasn’t the correct word for it, perhaps. He was enchanted, enraptured: as if possessed. All that came to Hans’ minds were the stories of Bacchantes, of wild dancing and processions of wine and sex, and bodies, rutting and dancing and twisting. 

They fell down onto the hay: as if through a dense, hot fog, Hans could hear Karolina exhale, low, in pleasure. Moan—and giggle, pleasantly surprised, as Henry’s broad, skilled hands sneaked underneath her skirts. Slowly found their way under the fabric, pulling it up smoothly: over her knees, caressed, and her thighs, and then Henry’s hands buried themselves somewhere where Hans couldn’t see, and the girl just sighed. And smiled. 

Have I ever made a woman smile like that? Hans thought, and then, all thoughts were pushed out of his mind: because Henry, hazy and swaying and grinning brazenly, started kissing her neck. He was both tender and rough about it: his stubble marking her pale throat with red streaks, his teeth nipping at the tender skin—his hands, hungry, roaming her body. 

Hans found himself next to them: at arm’s length, with the hay soft under his side. Looking at them—listening to them. 

“Pace yourself,” Karolina whispered, smirking—whatever she was about to say next was drowned by Henry kissing her, deep, hard: Hans could swear he could see his tongue dart between his lips.

Frantic, slightly horrified—but obsessed to the point of shaking—he realised he was hard, already, just from listening to them and watching them kiss and touch each other. 

For a moment, he wished he could be Henry: hands on Karolina’s body, sneaking, conquering, testing, pushing.  Then, his mind was flooded with the idea that he was her: and it was Henry’s hands on his body, and his lips on his skin, and kissing, and moaning, and grinding against each other. 

And then he thought about being right there, in-between: buried in her, soft and willing, but with Henry right behind him, smirking, rough, buried in him. Up to the hilt, hard, unashamed—yet tender, patient, attentive. Listening to his breathing: pacing himself. 

God Almighty, Henry looked so fucking good kissing her—touching her—slowly grinding against her bare legs, enticing her to spread them completely. Let him in. Trust him. Give in. 

Hans heard his every breath. Every moan, half-reined—every grunt, brazen, impatient. 

The wine made him dizzy. Henry’s scent, right next to him, steel and sweat and marigolds, chamomile and spruce smoke: enveloping him, emanating, like a spell, from his body.

And his body was so close: if Hans was to reach out, just slightly, he could grab Henry’s arm… Curl his fingers around his bicep. Feel it tense—feel it move, in tandem with Henry’s heavy breathing, as he moved against the girl’s hips.

And then—Hans had to inhale sharply, laying there, next to them, eyes wide—Henry freed his cock from his braies. Hard and ready, and impatient, and Karolina moaned low, giggly, inviting him in. 

Before he entered her, for a split second: Henry turned to him, face half-buried in the crook of Karolina’s shoulder. A hungry gaze—a challenge—but a question, too.

Are you sure? Can I? Am I allowed?

Hans nodded, somehow, compelled. 

A shuddering exhale: a shaky moan as Henry buried himself, slowly, into her. A groan of pleasure and relief, as he slowly pushed his hips: and as Karolina unravelled under him, legs spread wide, hips rolling. 

Somehow, despite lying and his insecurities: Hans knew half of the enthusiasm Henry had to fuck her was caused by the very idea that Hans had her first. 

And perhaps… Perhaps by the fact that Hans was right next to them.

That thought joined the wine in his veins: dizzying. Incredible. He was hopelessly hard. 

Then: another vision. If he could embrace him—his arms around Henry, right behind him, slowly grinding his cock between his arsecheeks: and then, right there, breach him, fuck him, dictate the tempo of his rutting into the girl with a made up name. 

To Hell with it all, he thought, wine going to his head. Nothing mattered. No boundaries or lines, no stations, no hierarchies, no decencies.

Just his cock, hard, needy, leaking, straining against his braies. 

Hans inhaled, deep, and lowered his hand into his braies: taking himself into his palm, frantic and hot. There was no time to tease: he started pumping fast, in long motions, from the base up, pulling the skin over the head just a little too hard and too quick. 

Fuck it all, he thought. Let all hell break loose.

The girl moaned, hushed, as Henry fucked her: Hans couldn’t pull his eyes away from the force of Henry’s hips, ramming into her; hammer in the forge, hard and relentless, yet set on a constant, skilled rhythm.

Hans refused to let any worries in: any doubts. He was just happy to witness it all, to be a part of it somehow. To have started it, too, even if it started with a lie. The wine pushed him across any lines he thought might have still held—weeks of pent up desire and all the feelings he had for Henry obliterating any limits.

His hand was dry—and he was so fast and impatient in his pleasure that his own body was not able to keep up, fully, and offered no slickness to aid him.

God, if he only could fuck Henry—or have Henry fuck him—if there only was a world fantastical and perfect enough… But he was happy to just get this—and—fuck—it felt so fucking good but—fuck!-- it was just too dry, like a rash, burning, and so he just grabbed his balls instead, rolling them between his fingers, needy, inhaling sharply through the moment of pain. 

Karolina, in the hay, head thrown back—eyes closed in pleasure, mouth open, legs open, fingers curling at the nape of Henry’s neck. And Henry, smiling like the devil through his pleasure, slow, deep, consistent. Hans could hear the sound of his body clashing with hers: his balls hitting against flesh, and all he could think about was touching them, too, the way he touched himself. 

He never expected to be allowed this much: to be this close to Henry. To watch him—to smell him— to see his desire and his exertion, and his body, every inch of it, every hidden spot and crevice—and to touch himself, too, wantonly, with no shame, with no worry about tomorrow.

Oh God Almighty. He was touching himself—and Henry was right next to him, and fuck, God, how was any of it even real!

Karolina muttered something into Henry’s skin, and he just grunted in response: and that sound sent a wave of pleasure down Hans’ back so strong that he felt his arse tense and his hips buck. He moaned, himself, out loud, stroking his aching cock desperately even though his skin stung.

And suddenly, in the darkness of that hut, as his moan echoed out: Henry’s eyes snapped to him. Immediately: like a hunting beast to prey. Hungry. Dead set on something. 

Henry kept his rhythm: ramming his cock into the girl, rattling her hips in tandem with her breathy moans—and suddenly pressed his cheek against her shoulder, to look at Hans. His gaze dropped: to Hans’ stomach and then to his cock, to his hand pumping desperately, to his hips bucking in search for more friction. Then, Henry looked directly into Capon’s eyes. Kept going. Looking at him. Smiling, mouth half open in panting.

And then, Henry—without breaking his rhythm—freed one of his hands, letting go of Karolina’s hips.

Spat in it, grinning. Focused: eyes away from Hans’ face again, but down, looking at his hips. Reached out with that hand, wet with saliva. 

Then: he brought it to Hans’ cock.

Slicking him up and then taking him into his hand, pumping, slowly, at a slight angle. Low at the base, hard, towards the head, pulling, stroking downward again. 

Hans gasped, despite himself: loud and unseemly and surprised. Then, any breath was chased away from him as all he could do was moan. Needy—but satisfied: some deep, strange, surprising pleasure. 

Henry’s hand was perfect: strong and firm, and broad enough to curl around his cock perfectly. His skin was hot, and soft—until it wasn’t, in the couple spots Hans knew were scars and calluses, and marks of fighting and forging. 

Karolina, lost in her pleasure, paid no mind—the small glances she stole, half-aware, only furthered her own enjoyment.

God Almighty. God, fuck.

Fuck, please.

Fuck.

Can this be real? Is this real? Is this happening?

For a moment, Henry caught his gaze: pupils blown, dark, dangerous. But still so undeniably Henry: bright and with a slight challenge, and overjoyed. 

Henry’s hand curled tighter around his cock—fingers wandering, for a second, to messily press against his balls, and then back to the task. 

Hans squeezed his eyes shut. It was all too much. It felt too good—the smell of hay and Henry’s sweat, the warmth of his breath, the friction of his skin. It was bliss—and the worst curse he could think of, and everything he deserved, and something entirely out of the realm of what he should ever be allowed. 

He thought about it so many times—Henry’s fist closed over the head of his cock, leaking now, twitching—and it was so incredibly difficult to believe this wasn’t just yet another of his fantasies.

No, this is real —fuck—Hans yelped as Henry switched his stroking to an angle and tempo that threatened to unravel him immediately. 

He couldn’t hear anything else: it was as if they were the only ones there, the two of them, and the rest of the world was gone. The only sound, echoing in his head and reverberating through this spine, was Henry’s breathing. 

A sudden flash of fear: he was about to come and—God, this feels so fucking good—he couldn’t just—fuck—come across Henry’s fucking hand, could he.

Or—could he?

Hans threw his head back, feeling his spine arch nearly painfully: as the force of the sudden, pent up orgasm rippled through his body. His whole body was hot, as if he was running a fever; he could feel sweat roll down his thighs and stomach. 

Oh, Henry, Henry. Hal. 

And he could feel Henry’s fist curl tighter, for a moment: stroking him skilfully through the long wave of pleasure, and through the smaller after waves—then, slick with cum, slowing down, tender, and then—suddenly—letting go.

Henry wiped his hand into the hay next to Hans’ hips without a second thought or a moment of hesitation: and returned his attention to Karolina, fully focused on his rhythm again.

Hans felt dizzy, pushing his softening cock back into his braies—the muscles of his stomach hurt from being so tense for so long but— God Almighty.

Oh, fuck.

That was real—that happened. 

Hans kept pacing around the shed: Karolina was long gone—left the second dawn started turning the skies blue—and Henry was still asleep.

Asleep was not the correct word: passed out. Hans even checked, at one point, whether the bastard was breathing or not. 

His heart was threatening to jump out of his chest since the moment he woke up; splitting headache, dry mouth, stomach churning: and the slight stickiness around his thighs that reminded him, very starkly, that he came.

Or rather: Henry made him come. All over his hand—and Hans’ thighs and stomach—and his whole body burned with the hangover and the fear of what would happen next.

They were so drunk—Henry especially—but no drunkenness could excuse… Or justify… Or-

“Oh, my fucking head,” Henry whined, walking out of the shed and immediately shielding his eyes from the sun. He was still swaying slightly. “Uh, morning, Sir Hans…” He grimaced. “I am not feeling well, not at fucking all…”

“Neither am I,” Hans replied, tone slightly pointed despite himself. “We, uh. We went a little overboard, I think,” he said, trying to keep his voice from breaking. 

Please don’t hate me. Please don’t hate me. 

“Aye, I’d say,” Henry groaned, leaning against the wall of the shed and trying to fight an upcoming dry heave. “I… That stupid potion…”

Grimacing, he looked at Hans: and Henry’s eyes were nothing if not… Apologetic. Hazy, but mostly worried and slightly embarrassed. 

“I don’t even remember how we-” Henry groaned again, holding his head. “I blacked out completely. God… Where’s, uh, where’s Karolina?”

“Went home by dawn,” Hans replied, trying to steady his breathing. “You… You don’t remember anything..?”

“Well, I remember,” Henry gestured vaguely. “Leaving the Den, the three of us… Talking about that shepherd…” Suddenly, Henry’s face turned crimson. “I remember that Karolina, uhm… Felt… Very nice,” he coughed out. 

“Mhm,” Hans crossed his arms. 

God, he thought, in half-prayer. I hope you’re listening: you are both saving my arse and laughing at me, eh?

“I’m so sorry, Hans,” Henry said. “I thought it would be alright if her and I-”

“No, no, it’s alright, don’t be foolish,” Capon chuckled slightly. “You enjoyed yourself, that’s good.”

“And did the two of you-”

“Well, no,” Hans shook his head, laughing. “But that’s alright, my dear and fearless escort, that’s entirely alright. I found something to do so no need to worry about me.”

Henry looked at him with immense relief. 

“That’s embarrassing,” he groaned as they both turned towards the Den. “I’ve had that happen once already… Herbs can be so… God, I don’t even know.”

“You feel that bad?” Hans raised his eyebrows.

“Well, no,” Henry admitted sheepishly; his neck was red. “The hangover aside, I feel… Unjustifiably good.”

Hans made sure to inhale much slower than his body tried to originally. 

“But it’s just,” Henry sighed. “I’m embarrassed that I blacked out… I don’t even know if I was, you know… Good,” he finished, awkwardly. “Especially if she left so quick.”

“I’m sure you were alright, Henry,” Capon said, simply. 

Is it a blessing or a curse that he doesn’t remember? 

Will he remember?

“Well, I hope so. I need to find that flask and pour it all out… Devil’s work, that.” Henry shuddered. “The last time I was in a situation like this… God, this can really make you do things you normally would never, ever do.”

Right.

Fuck,

“Uh-huh,” was all that Hans managed.

Tell him.

Remind him.

Ask if he remembers. Be direct. 

Or don’t—he would never do it, sober, would he?

“Henry-”

“Henry!” Suddenly sounded out from the stables. “Everyone was looking for you!”

It was Anna—and behind her, looking at him, amused and shaking his head: Samuel, packing his saddlebags.

God really did have a sense of humour. 

It was time for Henry to leave for Sigismund’s camp. 

Of course.