Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I hope we’ll all see each other at the wedding!” 

Botschek’s voice is jovial, and why shouldn’t it be? He’s alive, for one. With Henry’s help, he had escaped imprisonment – and probably death – at the hands of Sigismund’s supporters. Two members of the Dry Devil’s band, men Henry drank with and joked with and considered friends, hadn’t survived the botched rescue mission. Henry himself had barely made it out of the Italian Court with his heart still beating. If it hadn’t been for Musa, he’d be there now, dead and cold with Erik’s sword impaled in his chest.

By some miracle, the rest of the crew and the captive lords had made it here, behind the sturdy walls of Suchdol Fortress. They’d even secured that damn silver, the almost unfathomable mountain of riches that had set this entire mess in motion. The victory celebration was already well underway in Suchdol’s inner courtyard. Someone had rolled out the kegs, someone was strumming a lute. Henry had smiled, feeling some of the tension finally melt from his shoulders as he watched Samuel twirl Katherine to the music. He had glanced around for Hans, who was conspicuously absent from the festivities. The young lord had never been one to turn down a drink or a dance.

Clutching a mug of ale in each hand, Henry had set off to find his friend. He had been looking forward to this reprieve, to spending some time with Hans without the threat of violence that seemed to follow them at every turn lately. If they could sneak off together to some quiet corner, all the better. He was grinning as he wandered through Suchdol’s northern gate, where the now-freed lords were gathered, preparing to depart for their estates. He’d spotted Hans deep in conversation with the older nobleman. It was probably a mistake, in hindsight, to walk over to and interrupt them. But he had. 

When Henry overheard Botschek chiding Hans, telling him he’d soon be needed in Podiebrad to meet his bride, he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Then, even though his body was still aching from yesterday’s exertions, a jolt of adrenaline surged through him, like it always did in the seconds before a battle. His hand moved instinctively for his longsword, as if the elderly lord had suddenly become his greatest adversary. A threat he needed to eliminate to keep Hans safe. 

But he recovered quickly. Henry is prepared for this. As prepared as he can be, at least. Hans had warned him, that first night they spent together in Nabokov. They were both exhausted, and Hans had been naked and half asleep in Henry’s arms. He’d told Henry to be careful, to not expect too much from this. He would be married, eventually. And then everything would change.  

Henry hadn’t known quite what to make of it. It was always something he’d taken for granted, in the months he’d silently admired but never dared touch his lord. Of course Hans would be married. Of course he’d spend his days doing whatever exactly it was that nobles did. Of course he’d spend his nights in a soft bed on top of some nameless, faceless woman, hopefully at least enjoying the job of making an heir. If Henry was lucky, maybe they could have some fun on a hunting trip every now and again. If he wasn’t, he already had so much more than he’d ever thought possible. He would always know the kind of noises Hans makes when he’s close, always remember the taste of his lips and the heavy feel of his cock in his hand.

That cannon had changed everything. When von Bergow’s forces attacked Nabokov and took Hans hostage, everything else in Henry’s life seemed to fade into the background. Revenge, the war. His own safety. All of it was secondary to getting his brash, impulsive, wonderful friend back. But he had, somehow. He’d had to fight. He’d lied, he’d stolen. He’d killed, more than once. And when he found Hans in that tower, he knew it had all been worth it. He would do it all again, as many times as he had to, to keep this man in his life.

And soon, they found their way back to each other, locked in their shared room at the Devil’s Den. Hans had kissed him like it was more important than breathing, like it was the only thing keeping him alive. He stopped just long enough to whisper Henry’s name, to confess exactly how much he’d missed him, missed this. When they were both spent, Hans flopped on top of him and stubbornly refused to move to his own bed on the other side of the room. Waking up next to him the following morning, Henry knew he wouldn’t give this up so easily. He couldn’t. Hans would be married, yes. Did that mean everything had to end? A thought occurred to him: He’ll be married, but he’ll be mine.

It sounded silly, at first. Delusional. But with every kiss, with every stolen moment of privacy, it seemed more and more possible. Henry repeated it to himself like a prayer. He’ll be married, but he’ll be mine. He might be brushing a stray piece of sandy hair off Hans’ handsome face, watching him fight against sleep so he could spend a few more minutes pressed into the crook of Henry’s neck. Or when they’re riding together, and Hans looks over his shoulder to goad Henry into a race. Or when he’s worked two fingers inside of him, and has to press his other hand to Hans’ mouth to keep him from moaning too loudly. He’ll be married, but he’ll be mine.

He thinks about it now.

It’s how he can keep his voice steady when he responds to Botschek.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He even manages a smile. 

Botschek nods, the rich blue fabric of his chaperon catching some of the mid-morning sunlight. Then he turns and heads toward the cart that will carry him home, blissfully unaware of the dagger he’d stabbed directly into Henry’s heart. Hans and Henry both watch as Botschek leaves. When he’s out of sight, they stare at each other, silently. Henry isn’t sure what he should do with the mugs of celebratory ale he’s been holding. Pour them out? Chug them both? Maybe it would be more cathartic to chuck one at Hans, if only to teach him a lesson about keeping secrets. How long had he been hiding this?

Hans, for his part, looks like he’s eaten a rancid cabbage. There’s no color on his face, and his lips are slightly open. His arms are crossed and he’s slouching, which is unusual for him. He usually stands tall next to Henry. He’s always been so smug about that tiny bit of height he has over his bodyguard, even before they considered themselves friends. 

After, he would stretch up as high as he could, forcing Henry onto tiptoes to kiss him. Sometimes, he would jump or tease him from the top of a tree stump. In retaliation, Henry would tug at his collar, forcing lips and tongues and teeth together until Hans was panting, leaning into him. It was all so ridiculous. If anyone had seen them, Henry would have lost his hard-fought reputation as a formidable warrior. But it had made them both laugh, and it made Henry stupidly happy. 

He can’t stand by now while Hans seems like he might lose the battle to keep down whatever’s in his stomach. As he always has, as he always will, he tries to comfort him. Henry takes a step closer and extends an arm, moves to wrap it around Hans’ shoulder. Before he can pull him into a friendly hug or say anything consoling, he hears Zizka’s stern voice behind him. 

“Henry, you’re needed.”

Henry catches himself and pulls back. On occasion, Zizka would make a pointed comment or two about the “unusual” relationship Lord Capon shared with his page, but he had never said or done anything to suggest he knew all the intimate details. Henry would very much like to keep it that way. 

“Aye, Captain. Lead on, I’m right behind you.”

He faces Zizka, who gestures deeper into the courtyard, away from the happy sounds coming from the inner fortress. When Henry takes his first step in that direction, Hans straightens his overcoat and moves to follow. Zizka interrupts, holding up an open palm. 

“Not you, Lord Capon. Go on, celebrate our victory. I’ll have your right hand back to you soon enough.”

There’s no way he could have realized it, but Zizka’s words lift Henry’s spirits. Right hand. That’s exactly what he is to Hans. Henry is a part of him, an important part. And he will be, for as long as Hans will have him, wife or no. He’ll be married, but he’ll be mine. God, how he wants that to be true.

“I’ll come find you in a bit, sir.”

Pressing both mugs into Hans’ hands, Henry tries to catch his eyes and smiles. He hopes his expression appears sure and genuine, and doesn’t reveal anything about the confusing mess he’s actually feeling. But Hans is gazing at the ground. He nods and says nothing. Has he ever been this quiet? As much as Henry rolls his eyes and groans at his friend’s inability to let anyone else have the last word, he’d give a good pile of groshen to hear one final quip. It’s silent. 

Ah well, he can’t worry about it now. Not when there’s work to be done. As he has so many times over the last year, he buries it somewhere inside himself, somewhere it won’t interrupt him. The same place as his parents and Bianca and all the other ghosts.

He falls in step with Zizka, who leads Henry along the path tracing the outer bailey. They’re heading in the direction of the small forge situated near the front of Suchdol.

“What are we doing out here, sir?”

“An unexpected visitor arrived last night, while you were resting. Come, it’ll be easier to show you.”

Just a bit further, and Zizka stops in front of a nondescript outbuilding. It might be a storage barn or the smith’s dwelling – Henry can’t quite tell from the outside. He hadn’t even noticed it on his previous visit to the fortress, so focused instead on finding any scrap of information that could lead to Hans. Zizka doesn’t knock before turning the handle and pushing the wooden door open.  

“Go ahead.”

He waves Henry into the dim room, which does seem like someone’s well lived-in home. There’s a stewpot boiling on the stove, tunics, leggings and a leather apron strewn about the dusty floor. A chest with a heavy lock against one of the walls. It was all perfectly ordinary. Except for the bed shoved into the corner, where a familiar man rests against a pillow. Henry’s face breaks into a wide grin. 

“Kubyenka? I thought you were dead! We saw that horse shot out from under you.” 

Kubyenka snorts indignantly, but it looks like it cost him. He grimaces, clutching at his ribcage. Henry also flinches, clearly imagining the cuts and bruises a fall like that must have inflicted. It’s a wonder he’s still breathing, let alone here.  

“Do you think that’s the first horse that’s tried to kill me? It’s the third, at least. No, the fourth!”

By now, Zizka has made his way into the small room and closed the door behind him. He stands next to Henry, arms folded. 

“He barreled up to the gate last night when nearly everyone was asleep. He’s lucky the guards had the sense to fetch me, and didn’t shoot him on sight. He was in a bad way, and when I asked Sir Peter for a room where he might recover, the lord was generous enough to volunteer the blacksmith to give up his bed for the night.”

“Don’t be so bitter, Zizka! He also sent over quite the pretty wench from that bathhouse of his this morning. She fixed me right up. Twice, in fact.”

Henry laughs, relieved. When they met, Kubyenka had worked Henry’s last nerve, asking him to traipse through the forest in search of lost supplies that his moonshine-addled brain couldn’t quite locate. But the man had grown on him. He was loyal, and a good fighter. And there’s been enough death already. Henry takes a seat on the wooden stool next to Kubyenka’s bedside and gives him a careful pat on the shoulder. 

“You’ll have to tell me about those other murderous horses when you’re up and about.”

“I’ll tell you now, what the fuck else am I doing? The first: I must have been around age three…”

“Kubyenka, enough. Tell Henry exactly how it is that you’re here, and not dead in a field being picked clean by bandits.” 

When Zizka interrupts, Kubyenka’s face turns serious for the first time. He looks at Henry with something almost like pity in his eyes. 

“It’s not a pleasant story, Henry. And it ends with Erik.”

Henry tries to focus as Kubyenka recounts what happened to him in the long hours he was separated from the Dry Devil’s crew. He was captured by the Praugers. His injuries were severe, but survivable with treatment. He had made his peace with God, assuming he would be tortured and left for dead before the army fled. But then, shockingly, he was released. By Erik. On the condition that he delivered a message: Henry must face him in a duel at Sigismund’s camp. Man to man, bring no one else. He’ll be waiting. 

As Kubyenka speaks, Henry is distracted. He’s thinking instead about his last encounter with his enemy, less than a day earlier in the Italian Court. It’ll be a long time before he forgets that look in Erik’s eyes, as he positioned his sword over Henry’s chest. It was pure loathing. Even after all Henry’s suffered, he’s not sure if he’s ever hated anyone quite as much. He doesn’t know if he has it in him. 

Zizka asks a question that pulls Henry out of his thoughts and back to the cramped room. 

“What will you do, Henry? Will you face him?”

Henry has no fucking idea. 

“Well. I’m not sure, exactly. What do you think, Captain?”

Zizka considers.

“He’s alone, and he’s desperate. That makes him vulnerable. If he’s not dead already, someone could very well take care of him long before you even set foot in Sigismund’s camp. But, it also makes him dangerous. He strikes me as a man that can hold a grudge. If you don’t want to spend your days looking over your shoulder, it would be best to handle him yourself, now.”

It’s good advice, and Henry’s grateful for it. Grateful especially for the warning. Looking over his shoulder would be nothing new for the blacksmith’s boy – he’s been doing it since he fled the burning ruins of Skalitz. Whether it was the Cumans, bandits, or one Sigismund’s many allies, someone always seemed to want Henry dead. He’s strong, and he’s always handled it. But this time, it’s not himself Henry is concerned about. If Erik wants to get to him, wants to make him well and truly suffer, he’s smart enough to go after the people that helped Henry piece his life back together when it was in shambles. Theresa. Johanka, Godwin. Samuel. And, of course, Hans would be at the top of the list. And now, with this damn wedding on the horizon, he might have the perfect opportunity. 

Henry stands. 

“I uhh… I need to talk to Lord Capon, first. Before I decide anything.”

Zizka narrows his eyes. He looks like he weighs his words carefully. 

“It’s your decision, Henry. Not his.”

“Of course. But I’m in his service. Can’t imagine he’d have much use for a dead bodyguard.”

Henry chuckles, but it comes out sounding humorless and awkward. Zizka and Kubyenka don’t join in. 

“Whatever you decide, be careful. And if you still aren’t sure after you speak with Capon, come find me again. We’ll sort it out, one way or another.”

Henry nods to Zizka, gives Kubyenka one more friendly clap on the shoulder.

“Thank you, sir. And thank you, you drunk old fool. Whatever happens, I’m glad you made it back.”

“Not as happy as me! I’m lucky you have so many crazy enemies, boy. But Zizka here is right: You be careful, Henry.”

Henry heads toward the door.

Chapter Text

As expected, he finds Hans near an open keg. He’s leaning against the sturdy stone wall of the fortress, but Henry sees him fidgeting from twenty paces away. Rocking back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet, he’s combing a hand nervously through his hair. They lock eyes, and Hans straightens, nodding in the direction of a more secluded corner away from the crowd of merrymakers. He strides toward it without waiting for Henry. He doesn’t bother looking back to make sure his page is following.

Because he is, of course. Henry jogs across the bustling yard to catch up with his friend, doing his best to ignore the knot in his stomach and the heaviness of his feet. Since Nabokov, he’d grown so used to the pleasant, warm feeling that would spread through his chest every time Hans risked sneaking him away. Now, he’d happily trade places with Janosh, who’s already retching up the contents of his stomach, despite the early hour. 

He watches the top of Hans’ head disappear down a narrow stairwell, probably leading to an underground cellar. By the time he reaches the landing, Hans is already sitting on the bottom step. Henry can’t make out his expression, but he appears to be staring dejectedly at the ground. I’d like to see the soon-to-be Lady of Pirkstein try and deal with this, he thinks bitterly, before scolding himself. No time for that. He glances over his shoulder to check for any prying eyes. Satisfied, he exhales and forces his legs forward and down, one after the other. Hans doesn’t move, even as the sounds of Henry’s heavy boots and plate armor reverberate off the stone walls.

When he reaches the last step, Henry slides past the sulking nobleman to press an ear against the wooden cellar door - a habit he picked up after a close call involving the innkeeper at the Devil’s Den. Hearing no movement from the inside, he gives the handle a twist. It’s locked, for a small mercy. At least if someone were to wander out, the metallic clicking would give them a brief warning. It’s a good thing, too, because Hans is already yammering on as if they’re the only two people in the crowded fortress.     

“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, Henry. I really tried to! I wanted you to hear it from me. You deserved that much, at least, after… everything. And I especially didn’t want you learning the news from bloody Botschek, of all people. That old villain is the one who schemed up this plan, along with my dear uncle, of course. Ugh, I can just picture the two of them at Raborsch, counting their coins and giggling as if their little alliance won’t ruin the rest of my fucking life.”

Henry doesn’t want to have this conversation, not now, and certainly not here. In a cramped stairwell where any guard or serving girl fetching another jug of wine could interrupt them. If they have to discuss this damned wedding, Henry wants to do it somewhere more private. Somewhere he can wrap his arms around Hans and kiss him quiet. Where he can tell him that the engagement doesn’t matter, that none of it matters, only this. Where he can comfort and be comforted. 

But all that will have to come later. First, he has to deal with Erik. 

Standing with his arms crossed and back pressed against the door, Henry takes another steadying breath. He can’t quite bring himself to look Hans in the eye. Instead, he keeps a close watch on the top of the stairs, ready to signal if he sees anyone coming. Somehow, this task always seems to fall to him. When he speaks, he keeps his voice low. 

“It’s all right. We’ll sort it out, eh? Like always. I need to talk to you about something else.”

Hans snorts. He scoots two steps up, forcing himself squarely into Henry’s field of vision. He waves a hand petulantly in front of his bodyguard’s face, trying to command his full attention. If Henry were in a better mood, he would have chuckled and mussed his hair, teased him that patience is virtue. But now, he stays still. He can feel the corners of his mouth pulling down into a frown. He fights to keep his face neutral, and he must succeed, because Hans continues his rant. 

“Something else? Something else, my arse! You can’t possibly be serious. I’m getting married, Henry. To some wench I’ve never met! Never even seen! And I won’t be able to hold those vultures off much longer. What could be more urgent than that? She’s probably fat, you know. It’s a fate worse than death. And you don’t seem to care at all!”

No holding back the scowl any longer. 

“What the fuck are you on about? Of course I care! And I said we’ll sort it, somehow. But there’s been other news, and I need your help, so I’m asking you to think about something besides your inheritance or your cock for a bit. Can you manage that, my lord?” 

For an instant, Hans looks shocked. Then, he looks furious. That cold glare is familiar – Henry had been on the receiving end of enough of them in the days following their first meeting in Rattay. He wonders if he’s overstepped, if Hans will storm off like he did that awful day in Troskowitz. Neither of them moves.

Finally, Henry heaves a sigh and holds his open palms above his shoulders to signal surrender.

“I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

Hans’ features soften, although not completely. His blue eyes are still narrowed, and he’s biting the soft skin of his lower lip. But he does relax back into his seat on the stone step, and stretches one leg out long enough to gently nudge Henry’s calf with his foot – a tentative peace offering.

“It’s fine. Talk.”

Bending down, Henry squeezes one of Hans’ knees with a gloved hand. He appreciates these little touches, the ones they make do with when there’s no time or space to be alone. It’s something else that’s just theirs, that no noblewoman will ever steal from them. When he stands up, Henry is smiling again.

“It’s actually not all bad news, for once. Kubyenka’s alive.”

“Really? How?” 

The interest in Hans’ voice seems genuine, and Henry hurries to tell him about Kubyenka’s capture and surprise arrival at the Suchdol gates in the early hours of the morning. He hangs on every word, but his expression sours as soon as Henry mentions Erik. Still, he manages to bite his tongue until Henry reveals the conditions of the duel. At that, Hans stands, and suddenly he’s close enough to touch, close enough for Henry to smell the ale on his breath. He leans forward, lips hovering beside Henry’s ear. They had already been speaking in carefully hushed tones, but his voice drops to a stern whisper.  

“Henry. You’re not going to accept, are you?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“What’s there to talk about? Why would you possibly even consider something so reckless? He almost killed you last night, and he couldn’t, and now he has nothing and he’s absolutely done for. Not even worth the breath it took you to tell me about this ridiculous challenge.”

“But that’s just it, see? Zizka warned me about this. He said Erik’s desperate, and if I don’t handle him soon, I’ll be sleeping with one eye open for the rest of my life. And so will the person I want in bed next to me.”

And maybe Henry is reckless, just a little, because he wraps his fingers around Hans’ neck and pulls him in for a rough kiss. He feels Hans’ body melt into his, like he’s trying to pour himself through all the cracks of Henry’s armor. When Henry pushes him back, all too aware of the noises coming from the courtyard overhead, a whine escapes Hans’ throat. Henry grins, gives him a playful smack on the cheek. 

“And besides that, it’s the honorable thing to do.”

Hans groans, the spell broken.

“Oh, piss off, Henry. Don’t delude yourself into thinking honor has anything to do with this. You’re not nobles, trying to settle some dispute over land rights. You’re not even a knight.”

Something about his tone irks Henry, and rips the scab off a wound he thought healed when Hans apologized to him in their shared cell in Trosky Castle. The next words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“Ah, forgive me, I’d forgotten. I’m just a simple peasant, with no idea how the world works, wasn’t that right?”

“That’s… I didn’t say that.”

“Well, not today.”

Hans sighs. He squints his eyes closed, considering. He finally places two palms on the door behind him, one on either side of Henry’s face, caging him in. 

“I only meant... I want you with me. Desperately. I want to spend every minute, every second with you. While we still have time.”

The words are sweet, reassuring. Henry is sure he didn’t mean anything by them. But the idea that they might be running out of time, because of a new engagement or because of an old enemy, puts Henry even more on edge. 

“Come with me, then.”

He flinches at the sound of Hans’ fist punching into the wood behind him.

“No! Absolutely not! What, you’d like me there to watch as a madman kills you with an arrow from the shadows? Or sics a pack of Cumans on you? Would that be more honorable, if I’m there to witness your death?”

They’re talking in circles, and it’s getting them nowhere. Henry can feel his frustration building, feels himself on the verge of saying something he won’t be able to take back. As usual, someone has to make a decision, and as usual, it falls to the steadfast blacksmith’s boy. He gently lowers Hans’ arms back down to his sides. 

“Hans, I have to go. Not for me, not for my honor. Forget all that. But I already told you, he’ll never let this go. I don’t want him sneaking up on the people I care about.”

“Like who, Henry? Your new ‘brother,’ the one you don’t actually share a drop of blood with? That mill wench who took you for a tumble in the hay?”

“I meant you, you prick. But you’re not exactly making it easy.”

He elbows Hans out of his way. Harder than he’d intended, but he’s too angry to apologize again. Instead, he takes the stone steps two at a time, resolute now in his choice to face Erik. If only so he can ride back to Suchdol victorious and rub his lord’s smug fucking face in it. 

He’s halfway up when a hand grips his forearm. If it wasn’t covered in steel, he has no doubt he would be able to feel Hans’ fingernails digging into his skin. 

“You see, that’s where you’re wrong. It can’t possibly be me, because if it’s me you’re worried about, you would stay here, like I’m telling you to. Why did you even ask me, if you weren’t willing to listen? Your mind was already made up, you just wanted someone to cheer on another one of your pointless vendettas. Not this time, Henry!” 

From his higher vantage point on the steps, Henry can see this corner of the courtyard isn’t as deserted as it had been earlier. While they were downstairs, a small crowd has drifted closer, many of them smiling with mugs in hand. Henry isn’t sure whether they’ve caught anyone’s attention, but it won’t be long if they keep this up.

“Let’s talk about this later, sir.”

But Hans is stubbornly refusing to surrender his arm. He’s clearly struggling to keep his voice low. 

“If you go, I… I won’t talk to you anymore!”

A harsh laugh from Henry. 

“Hanush might have a bit of a problem with that, since he’s the one who tied me down to you in the first place.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you damn well know it."

He wants to rip his arm free, but he spots Lord Peter nearby. That’s just what he needs, for the master of the fortress to see him grappling with a noble. He’ll get Zizka’s entire crew thrown out the gate before Kubyenka can even stand. He stays still, glances over his shoulder as he whispers down to Hans.  

“And you know I said I’d never run away again. Ever. From anything.”

“Well, that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it? You’re so desperate to play at being the almighty hero, and you never stop to consider when you’re acting like a complete and utter idiot. You don’t fucking think.”

No, fuck it. He yanks his arm back. Later, he’ll be proud of himself for keeping his voice below a shout.

“Play at being the hero? And where the hell would you be if I’d sat on my arse waiting for someone else to ride to your rescue? Dead three times over or locked in a tower like some fucking damsel.”

People are starting to look over, there’s no doubting it. Hans leans in. He’s so quiet, Henry can barely make out the words. He wishes he couldn’t. 

“Or safely at home in Rattay, getting ready to marry some beautiful heiress with perfect tits and inherit what’s mine. Instead, I’m stuck in this backwater fortress, tying myself in knots over whatever the fuck is going on between us.”

Since the night they reunited after Maleshov, Henry hadn’t spent much time wondering about what was going on between the two of them. He already knew. To Henry, it was everything. It was home. Why would they both risk hellfire for anything less? The thought that Hans might feel differently, that Henry could mean as little to him as that butcher’s girl or a bathhouse wench, hurts more than anything Erik could have in store. 

“And what is this, Hans? Nothing? Just the quick fuck you said you wanted when we set out on this blasted mission? Audentes fortuna fucking ivant?”

Hans doesn’t hesitate. 

“I don’t bloody know, Henry! That would make all of this a hell of a lot easier, wouldn't it? So, maybe it is! Yes. Let’s call it nothing.”

Well. That’s that. 

“You know what? Go fuck yourself, Capon.”

As he emerges from the stairwell, Henry catches a scandalized stare from Peter of Pisek. He’s so furious he can hardly think, but he does his best to salvage it by turning to face Hans, and dropping into his deepest bow.

“I mean, Lord Capon… respectfully.”

But he mouths one more ‘fuck you,’ for good measure. 

Henry hears his name as he barrels through the courtyard, but no one follows him. Soon, he’s barking at the stablehand to fetch Pebbles. And then, before anyone else tries to talk him out of it, he rides out the gate and in the direction of Sigismund’s camp.

Chapter Text

Hoofbeats pounding into the dirt road, the whoosh of air streaking through the visor of Henry’s bascinet as he rides. None of it loud enough to drown out the echo of Hans’ words replaying endlessly in his mind. Let’s call it nothing. Nothing, exactly what Henry has, now. Exactly what he is.

None of the normal tricks he uses to distract himself from painful thoughts seem to be working. He tries to focus on the task in front of him, visualizing the combinations and techniques he’ll surely need to defeat Erik. Mittelhaw to expose the enemy’s left side, finishing with a quick slash across the core. A crushing overhead blow, followed immediately by a pommel jab to the face. The master strike, a staple of Henry’s repertoire since the Dry Devil taught him the complicated movement between recent missions. It’s not working. He can’t picture Erik without thinking of Hans, without wondering if he was right to call Henry a fool and a fraud. 

For weeks, Hans had been his escape from all of it, all of the stress and doubt caused by the war. If he woke up in the middle of the night, sweating and panting from another damned nightmare, he pictured his friend’s face, sleeping peacefully. Some nights, he’d just need to look to his side. Hans would be there, snoring lightly, more often than not. He’d run a hand through his blonde hair, or drape an arm over his slender waist. Hans might stir and grumble, but then he’d look up at Henry, concern obvious even in his bleary eyes. He’d whisper something comforting, or pull Henry into a deep kiss, or – 

Stop, focus, Henry scolds himself. You’ve survived much worse than this. He just needs to ride faster, to forget. 

Henry leans forward in his saddle, urging Pebbles to pick up her speed with a light tap of his heel. Even that small gesture torments him. The spurs looped over his riding boots were a gift from his lord, in honor of Henry’s first victory at the Rattay tourney after a month of narrow defeats. Before Henry started competing, Hans had mocked the contests. Called them a silly diversion for peasants who daydreamed about knighthood while they shoveled shit. Henry signed up for his first almost on a whim, after getting knocked on his arse during a particularly brutal training session with Captain Bernard. He figured he could use the extra practice.

When Henry fought, Lord Capon would occasionally grace the crowd with his presence. He never missed the opportunity to chaff Henry over a loss (“Chin up, my friend! You might be a terrible swordsman, but you're also an ugly oaf!"). He also seemed to enjoy offering up tips on Henry’s form, or sliding him a handful of groshen to cover the next entry fee. On the day Henry won, the young nobleman had been standing on the wooden platform overlooking the combat arena with Sir Hanush. Each round, he’d move a little closer – leaning nonchalantly against the back wall of the Upper Castle, perching on one of the tables that had been hauled into the courtyard for the occasion – until, finally, he was at the front, cheering loudly enough for Henry to hear him over the rest of the raucous crowd. It made the last thrust of his longsword, the one that forced his final opponent to yield, even sweeter.

As soon as the Herald declared the victor, Hans had thrown an arm around Henry’s shoulders, practically dragging him to the nearest tavern. There, he’d called for a toast, announcing proudly that his page had won the day’s tourney, and the first round was on the town’s future liege lord. That had quickly turned into a second round, and a third. All at once, it was past curfew, and Hans was cajoling Henry back to his room at Pirkstein, where the nobleman had squirreled away a flagon or two of wine for special occasions. 

Henry accepted, gladly, feeling truly at ease for what might have been the first time since fleeing home. It was almost like one of the many nights he’d spent drinking alongside Fritz and Matthias, but even then, Henry knew something was different with Hans. Knew he stared too long at the tensed muscles of his lord’s back when he pulled a bow string, and admired the way the sun caught the sharp angles of his face. He sparked those familiar desires in Henry, the ones he’d been too ashamed to admit to anyone in Skalitz. And he certainly wasn’t going to do anything about them now, in the bedroom of a man who could have him sent to the gallows.  

Instead, he drank until he’d passed out. He woke the next morning on the rug in front of Hans’ fireplace and scrambled out of the room in a panic. To his sheer horror, he bumped directly into Sir Radzig, who mentioned he looked a bit different from Lord Capon’s usual overnight guests. Henry had muttered something about overdoing the victory celebration, and hurried down to own cramped room, eager to put the whole mess behind him. Three days later, Hans presented him with the spurs. Gold, like that gaudy pourpoint he was never seen without. 

At first, Henry was too sheepish to actually wear them. It seemed an embarrassment of riches, while the other refugees from Skalitz were still begging for coins in the street. He should have sold them, really, and donated the proceeds to Johanka’s clinic. But he didn’t. Instead, he kept them under lock and key in the small chest that held his other treasured possessions: the book of fables he used to practice his reading, a dried sprig of chamomile that reminded him of his mother.

He finally donned them the morning they departed for Trotsky. He’d felt so proud, then, chosen to serve as a nobleman’s personal escort. His Lord Capon’s personal escort. After it all went sideways, when he lost everything again, he still managed to hold onto those gold spurs. By some stroke of luck, he’d stashed them in a rocky alcove before bathing, and found them there untouched a few days later. And even then, when he didn’t have two groshen to rub together for a bowl of hot stew and Hans was in the wind, he couldn’t bring himself to trade them. 

Now, galloping toward Sigismund’s camp, Henry wonders how he could have been such a sentimental idiot. These fucking things were nothing to him, just like everything’s nothing to him. Selfish bastard. And he kicks a boot out, hard, as if he can fling away this constant reminder of Hans. He folds his leg back in at an awkward slant, and jabs Pebbles in her flank with the rowel. She bucks, and Henry has to grip with all of his thigh strength to avoid getting thrown. A few gentle rubs and whoa, whoas, and the mare slows to a trot. 

“Sorry, girl. Shouldn’t take it out on you. Need a break?”

Pebbles whinnies, and Henry guides her to a soft stop. He dismounts, taking a beat to clear his head and examine the surroundings. It’s beautiful here, he has to admit. Peaceful. They’ve stopped near a meadow dotted with sage and marigold, orange and purple petals breaking up the vast field of green. He can make out tall trees in the distance, and realizes they are quickly approaching a familiar crossroads. The northern path will lead them to Sigismund’s camp. For a moment, Henry considers riding east, toward Miskowitz. Maybe he’s finally ready to sell these fucking spurs and start over. He’d met the smith there, already. It would be such an easy thing, asking for work as his apprentice. Would anyone even miss him if he didn’t return to Suchdol?

He remembers someone. 

“Can’t leave Mutt behind with those pig-headed nobles, can we? He’ll be spoiled rotten and ordering everyone at that fortress around before the week’s done.”

Henry chuckles, runs a hand along the mare’s neck. She stares at him, brown eyes appearing alert and – if Henry didn’t know better – judgemental.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

He better get a move on. As much as he cares for Pebbles, she’s a terrible conversationalist. 

“Let’s get this over with, eh, girl?”

With a practiced motion, Henry hoists himself back into the saddle. He hardly notices the weight of his armor anymore. He’s not sure when it became like a second skin to him, but he’s grateful for it. Erik might be wrecked with grief, starving for revenge, but he’s a skilled warrior, and Henry knows he’ll need every advantage in the fight ahead. He clicks his tongue and tugs at the reins, and Pebbles sets off along the northern trail. 

Before the pale outlines of the camp’s tents drift into focus, that awful stench assaults Henry. The bodies of deserters, rotting in the warm spring air, must still be strung up on high posts outside of the main gate. The first time he encountered the brutal scene, Henry’s stomach lurched, and he had to swallow a mouthful of bile. It doesn’t matter how many soldiers fall in battle around him, or how many he kills himself. Henry will never get used to the smell. 

The horse and rider round a bend in the road, and there it is. The spiked, wooden fence surrounding the massive settlement is as imposing as Henry remembers, although the guards usually patrolling the area seem to have abandoned their posts. When he was last here, under orders from Zizka to gather information on the enemy’s movements, he could hear soldiers training and the sounds of a busy forge. The silence now is jarring. 

Begrudgingly, he admits Hans could be right about one thing – Erik might be desperate enough to stage an ambush, to rain a barrage of arrows down on him before he can reach the gate. He slows Pebbles a hundred paces away, and steers her into the cover of the nearby treeline. When the brush is thick enough to obscure the line of sight to the camp, he climbs off her back once again, carefully tying her lead rope to a sturdy pine. He speaks quietly as he works.

“You just stay here, and don’t get yourself into any trouble, alright? Try not to draw any attention. I’ll be back before you know it.” 

That look again. He feeds her a slice of dried apple from his pouch, more to soothe his guilty conscience than anything. Henry hates leaving her here like this, at the mercy of any passing bandit. But he won’t risk Erik using her as a vessel for his rage. He needs to handle this alone, and handle it quickly. He gives her one last pat on the nose, for luck. 

Emerging slowly from the safety of the woods, Henry scans ahead for any sign of movement. Nothing, stillness. Shield at the ready, he crosses the open field, muscles tensed and poised to react. To what, he isn’t sure. It’s so damn quiet. Henry misses the predictable noises of the battlefield – men shouting and the clanging of steel. There, he knows what to expect, knows how to move to keep himself alive. What advantage does he have against a foe he can’t see? 

No way but forward, now. A few more cautious steps, and he’s to the gate. Still no sign of the man who summoned him here. He marches steadily on, past the western watchtower, the pillory. The stables. All abandoned. 

It’s eerie. A part of Henry hadn’t believed it, until he saw the empty tents with his own eyes. It was really over – Sigismund’s army of mercenaries had actually withdrawn. Their ludacris plan to storm the Italian Court had worked. And instead of celebrating, he was here, creeping through the aftermath like some common looter. It’s not over for you, Henry, he thinks. Not while he’s still breathing. 

He makes his way past more rows of deserted tents, some with damp laundry still clinging to clotheslines outside. Soon, he spots the narrow alley leading to the field hospital, where he saw Musa for the first time. He sees the path toward the baths, and remembers meeting Katherine there, being so impressed by the trove of information she’d uncovered about the camp’s commanders. He wishes they were both here with him, now. Wishes anyone was here, just to break this oppressive silence hanging over every corner of the empty settlement. 

He can’t take it anymore, and he shouts, voice booming.

“Erik! I’m here! Are you going to face me like a man? Or are you just another coward, like Istvan?”

He waits. 

Nothing.

In the center of the camp, Henry is finally forced to admit he’s at a loss. He had been so sure of himself at Suchdol – he would ride out, kill Erik, and return to the fortress for his next orders. Like any other mission, even if this one was personal. There was no other option. There still isn’t. He would rather die here, alone in this terrible place, than crawl back a failure. 

Deciding he needs a better vantage point, Henry trudges in the direction of a watchtower positioned near the southern edge of camp. He doesn’t bother quieting his steps. He wants Erik to hear him, God, he just needs this to be over. He reaches his destination and climbs, slamming a boot down with every step. As he surveys the land from above, something catches his eye. 

It’s a body. In the center of the combat arena, where Sigismund’s army had trained days earlier. Henry ducks instinctively, knees hitting the wooden floor of the watchtower. His breath slows.

He listens.

Still, nothing. 

Carefully, he stands, shield raised and a hand on the hilt of his longsword. 

The man lying motionless in the dirt has a shock of blonde hair, and for a second, Henry feels light-headed, convinced it’s Hans. But no, it can’t be. The shape is all wrong, too stocky to be his lord. He exhales, refocuses. 

Next, he takes in the armor. Even from this distance, he’s certain the set belonged to Erik. The same pale, almost white chest plate. The same legs, red, in the brigandine style.

And all of it, from the coif covering the man’s neck to down to his boots, covered in blood. 

Henry waits, watches for the smallest flinch of movement.

Nothing.

But he has to make sure. 

As he walks from the watchtower to the dead soldier, Henry wonders what could have happened. Istvan’s lapdog had other enemies, surely. Had one of them beaten Henry to his revenge? Or had he been distraught enough to turn his dagger on himself? Maybe the corpse is someone else entirely. But if it is Erik, if this is well and truly over, he’ll need some kind of proof. When he’d ended Istvan, he’d reclaimed the sword now at his side. He remembers an early assignment from Captain Bernard, who asked him to sever an ear off every bandit he killed. He hopes it won’t come to that. 

Henry vaults over the short fence marking the perimeter of the training ground and approaches the body. It’s Erik, there’s no doubting it from this close. He leans over him.

“Hmph. All that fuss, for nothing.”

He feels his mistake before he sees it.

His legs are swept out from underneath him. His chest hits the dirt, hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He hears a hoarse croak of a voice.

“For Istvan.”

And the dagger, plunging into the meat of his upper thigh. 

Chapter Text

Hans yells after him, once.

His voice sounds thin and shrill. Unbecoming. 

He clears his throat, watching as his page stomps away from him, toward the stables of Suchdol. His hands shake, and when he clenches his fists to steady them, he feels sweat on his palms. His breath is unsteady. He convinces himself it’s out of anger. Frustration at Henry’s near total unwillingness to see himself as anything but invincible. He was always the first to offer his sword for the most impossible of missions, always willing to stick his neck out for a maiden, or a passing beggar, or a lost fucking sheep. 

It’s going to get him killed, someday. 

Today, maybe.   

And it makes Hans furious. 

Not terrified. 

“Is all well, Lord Capon?”

Peter of Pisek appears in front of him, and Hans yanks his eyes from Henry’s quickly retreating figure. He dips into a polite bow.  

“Quite, and my apologies for the disturbance, Sir Peter. I needed a private word with Henry about one of his obligations to Rattay. A rather touchy subject, it seems.” 

The older nobleman raises his eyebrows, so high they nearly disappear under the brim of his feathered cap. He straightens, clasps his hands behind his back. When he speaks, Hans finds the tone eminently familiar.

“I understand why you’re fond of that boy, Sir Hans. He’s fiercely loyal, and he serves you well. We are all fortunate he fights for the rightful king. But you must be mindful of your reputation. It won’t do for one of your men to shout at you so publicly, like a drunkard set on starting a tavern brawl. Especially one of questionable stock.”

His words make Hans feel like a small child again, attending one of his uncle’s many lectures on propriety and decorum. On conduct befitting someone of his station. He heard them so often, he could almost recite the lines by memory. He loathed every second of it, as he does now. 

Maybe I should tell old Peter the man ‘of questionable stock’ had his cock up my noble arsehole not three nights past, Hans thinks, viciously. He might welcome a bit of shouting, then. 

“Of course. Thank you, sir. I’ll speak with him at once.”

Lord Peter relaxes, satisfied with the response. He wraps one arm around the top of Hans’ back, uses the other hand to give him a friendly clap on the shoulder. 

“You’re quite welcome. Ah, and you must forgive me. I haven’t yet had the opportunity to congratulate you on your engagement! Please, allow me to rectify that.”

Kill me. 

Hans can only nod, not trusting his tongue. He grimaces as the lord continues.

“You’ll enjoy your new bride’s estates, I’m certain. And there’s excellent hunting just to the east of Podiebrad. I’ll have to give you a tour of my trophy room before you depart. One stag in particular, a truly magnificent animal…”

For all the attention he’s paying, Hans might as well be one of the stuffed heads on Lord Peter’s wall.

His mind wanders almost immediately back to Henry. He’s out of sight, but it’s possible he hasn’t left the fortress, yet. It would take time to prepare his horse, for Henry to double check the endless supply of herbal remedies always stashed in the pouch tied around his waist. If Hans moves quickly, he could still catch him.

But to what end? They had both made themselves perfectly clear in that stairwell. Hans had done so a bit forcefully, perhaps. He wouldn’t have had to if his friend didn’t have such a thick skull. Henry had left him no choice, really, spouting all that nonsense about honor. Kissing him. Saying that he cares for him, that he wants to protect him. And then leaving, like he always does, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Damn him.  

Hans considers his last words, the ones that made Henry storm off, putting him at the mercy of Lord Peter. That all this was nothing. God, he’d give up Pirkstein, all of Rattay even, if he could somehow make that true. If he could actually sleep as Henry was off doing who knows what, while Hans stayed behind, feeling more worthless than a lame horse. 

They were getting so much harder, these endless goodbyes. Was it even an hour after Henry freed him from Maleshov before he’d set off again? Marching directly into a meeting of Sigismund’s inner circle, where discovery would have meant a painful death. Then, to defend Kuttenberg, where his small band was outnumbered five to one by mercenaries. Then, to infiltrate an enemy camp, tracking down a gang of deserters who had evaded even the most experienced soldiers. Making it back each time by the skin of his teeth, with a new set of aches and cuts he’d try so carefully to conceal from Hans. And now, the wedding: a near guarantee of more nights spent apart, of Hans imagining his own hand was a bit larger, more calloused.

So, yes, nothing would be a fucking relief. 

By the time Hans finally manages to extract himself from conversation with Lord Peter, he’s in an even more foul mood. He trudges back to the keg to down a mug of ale. It’s weak and warm, and makes his stomach churn unpleasantly. He pours another.    

As he sips, he wonders if he should visit the fortress chapel. It had felt sacrilegious, at first, praying for Henry to come home so they could keep sinning in dark corners and well-concealed forest groves. But more and more, it brought Hans comfort. Made him feel like he was doing something, playing a small part in keeping his friend safe. But his heart’s not in it today. No, he decides. You’ve been spending too much time on your knees for that yokel. He takes another long gulp. 

He lowers his mug, still sulking against a stone wall in the back of the courtyard, and spies Katherine moving through the jubilant crowd. She seems to be heading toward him, which is unusual. He can’t remember having more than one or two brief conversations with her, although Henry spoke of her highly, and often. Hans had teased him about it, asked if he needed to be jealous. When Henry replied with a ‘never,’ he sounded so sincere, so earnest, it made Hans blush to the tips of his ears. He swallows another mouthful of ale. 

“Everything alright, sir? You look like you’ve been through it.”

Katherine stands in front of him, arms folded over her deep blue dress. There’s an expression of concern on her pretty face, and it annoys Hans almost to no end. Why won’t anyone in this God forsaken fortress let him fume over Henry’s latest disappearance in peace? He sips from his mug again before responding. 

“I’m absolutely fine, Katherine. Just wonderful. Did you need something?”

Her eyes narrow, and Hans wonders if she regrets asking. He hopes so, hopes she’ll pick up on the exasperation in his voice and leave him be. But she continues.

“Yes, I do. I’m looking for that page of yours. He had a gash on his arm that reopened while you boys were hauling out the silver. I want to make sure he’s changed the bandage. For someone with his knack for medicine, he can be forgetful about such things, if you don’t keep an eye on him.”

Of course this is about Henry. And Hans was all too aware of the nasty cut on his forearm – had clumsily tried to dress it himself before yesterday’s mission, the strips of fabric awkward in his hands. Henry had gently taken over, asked for a kiss for luck instead. 

“I’m not entirely sure why you’re bothering me about it. I’m not his bloody mother.”

“No, and a good thing too, since she’s buried under a Linden tree in what’s left of Skalitz. But you are his lord, and his friend. Or so I thought.”

Hans sighs. This is not going as he would like. He sets his half-empty mug on the ground, realizing now the conversation will require more of his attention, if it’s to end anytime soon. 

“Ah. Forgive me, that was a foolish thing to say. But he’s not here, anyway.”

“Off resting, I hope?”

“No. Unfortunately not.”

“Where is he then?”

Hans is not used to this, to a woman challenging him. Not used to anyone challenging him, really, except his uncle. And Henry, always Henry. A part of him understands he should be angry, should warn Katherine to watch her tongue when she speaks to a nobleman. But he’s just a bit drunk, and her pointed questions are throwing him off balance. And, if nothing else, he can relate to her concern for that idiot of a blacksmith. So he answers honestly.

“By now, I imagine he must be getting close to Sigismund’s old camp. He accepted an invitation from Erik, for a duel. He’ll be back soon, God willing. Perhaps you could pray for him?”

“A…”

Her voice trails off, and for a short, blissful moment, Hans thinks she might leave to rejoin the celebration. Instead, for the second time this morning, Lord Capon finds himself face-to-face with an irate peasant.  

“A duel? With Erik? I know that madman from Trotsky Castle. All the girls were petrified of him. He hardly spoke to anyone, just practiced swordplay all day and night, unless he was out killing Heaven only knows who for von Bergow. And didn’t he almost run Henry through just a few hours ago? He has it in for him!” 

Taken aback by her outburst, Hans tries to stutter out a response. Katherine interrupts him. She leans closer, one hand at her hip and the other pointing an accusing finger at him. 

“And you! You knew about this! That means you must have had a chance to stop him, to convince him nothing good will come of it. Why didn’t you? How could you possibly let him leave?”

“I-I tried talking to him! He wouldn’t listen to reason. What would you have me do, woman? Lock him in the dungeon? Tie him to a hitching post?”

If the seething look on Katherine’s flushed face is any indication, that’s exactly what she would have done in Hans’ position. She inhales deeply and squints her eyes closed, an obvious effort to calm herself. When she speaks again, her voice is softer but no less frightening in its intensity. 

“Well, you’ll just have to go after him, won’t you? Erik is dangerous, and Henry must be exhausted. He might need help.”

“I’ll do no such thing. I can’t interfere with a duel. The man’s pride is at stake, his… his honor.”

He finishes, lamely. Somehow, it sounds even more pathetic now than it had when Henry tried the same line on him earlier. Katherine clicks her tongue and flicks a hand in Hans’ direction, like she’s swatting away a particularly annoying horsefly. A lock of brown hair has fallen out of her otherwise neat braid, and she ignores it. 

“Oh, you damn fool. He won’t have a thing to be proud about if he’s dead, will he? And how will you feel, knowing you could have stopped this? Your closest friend, and you can’t pull yourself away from the drink long enough to do a single thing about it.”

“I don’t think… You. You can’t talk to me that way!”

It almost comes out sounding like a question. Can she? She certainly is. 

In a show of bravado he doesn’t quite feel, Hans rises to his full height, draws in a breath to puff up his chest. Katherine matches his every move. 

“Fine. If you’re so set on doing nothing, I’ll take it up with Jan.”

And finally she turns, marching back in the direction of the outer courtyard. Hans is left standing, mouth agape, when she glances at him over a shoulder. 

“Are you coming?”

The absolute gall of this wench, he thinks. But in that moment she reminds him so much of Henry, of the scrappy villager in ill-fitting leather armor who took a swing at him in a Ratty tavern. Before he can talk himself out of it, he silently falls in step behind her, ale forgotten. Katherine continues her lecture without looking back. 

“He hardly stopped talking about you, you know, when you were trapped in Maleshov. I had to remind that poor lad to eat most nights, he was so worried. Jan tried to tell him that no harm would come to you, that you were a noble and you’d be protected, but he wouldn’t listen. Just kept banging on every door in Kuttenberg, hoping you’d be behind one of them.”

Hans’ chest swells again, this time with pride. Henry hadn’t liked discussing their weeks of separation, deflecting any questions with jokes or suggestive caresses. It had been a bit of a sore spot for Hans, who spent his time in captivity nearly sick with grief at the prospect of forgetting Henry’s face, the hearty sound of his laugh. The realization that his friend might have missed him as much, wanted him as desperately, is a happy one. He’ll have to tease him about it, just a bit.

The warm feeling quickly fades when he remembers he might never have the chance. His mouth is suddenly very dry. He clears his throat again. 

“Well. It was his duty as my escort to find me. And I wasn’t in Kuttenberg then, if you recall. I had no say as to how he conducted his affairs there.”

Katherine scoffs.

“You have a say now, don’t you? And he wasn’t just doing it out of some sense of duty, let me tell you. He said you were a good man, that you’d do the same for him. Apparently, he was wrong, since you won’t lift a bloody finger now the situation’s reversed.”

“I…”

And the protest dies on his tongue, because he knows she’s right. He’d even made the promise to Henry, in their room at the Devil’s Den. Said that he would be the first one cutting down any man to even try and keep them apart. Henry had beamed, told him he already knew. 

Fuck. It’s all he can think. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

They walk in tense silence until they find Zizka in the forge, deep in conversation with the Suchdol blacksmith. He’s holding a sword up to his eyeline, using the sunlight to examine a sharp edge. Katherine doesn’t hesitate to interrupt, wrapping a hand around his bicep. 

“Jan. Henry’s gone. Off to get himself killed in some duel with one of von Bergow’s men.”

Zizka lowers the blade, thoughtfully. 

“Ah, so he accepted Erik’s challenge?” 

He seems to regret the words before they’re fully out of his mouth, and Hans can see why. He thought Katherine had looked angry before, when she was chastising him in the courtyard. He was wrong. 

“You knew about this? Well, I should have guessed. I’m sure you were the first to tell him his damn honor was on the line, weren’t you? It would be just like you to put that nonsense in his head, when you have no way of knowing what’s waiting for him out there. It could be a trap! Erik could have a dozen men with him. Two dozen.”

Hans has seen Zizka keep his composure on the battlefield, watched him quickly rally after Godwin cleansed that egregious eye wound. This is the first time he looks well and truly rattled. Hans almost pities the man. 

“I… I advised him on the matter. In the end, it was his choice, Katherine.”

She is relentless. 

“Then why don’t you choose to tell Lord Capon to go after him? He owes Henry that much, after Maleshov. Or do you want to lose one of your best men for nothing? Do you think Erik will come crawling back to help you win this blasted war?”

Zizka heaves a sigh. He looks from Katherin to Hans, considering. 

“Don’t go alone, Capon. Take Samuel with you. He was heading for the kitchen, last I saw him. He’s still sober enough to ride and wield a blade.”

That’s a step too far, and Hans finds his voice again. 

“I certainly will not be bringing Samuel! That hothead doesn’t listen to a word I say, and he has no respect for nobility. If he goes, he’ll get us all killed.”

“He’s a strong fighter, and he’ll want to see Henry back safely. Bring him. And leave now, before Katherine here steals your horse and rides for the camp herself.”

All eyes are on Hans. Even the smith is staring at him expectedly. Fuck. 

“Oh… Kurva! Fine. Fine! I’ll go, and I’ll bring Martin’s bastard with me. Are you happy?”

Far from looking happy, Katherine is already moving to leave the forge. 

“I’ll find Sam, you get the horses ready.”

As she strides past Hans, she reaches out for one of his hands, grasping it tightly. 

“Please bring him back.”

She whispers. Hans nods. 

Chapter Text

They ride urgently and in silence, which suits Hans. 

He spurs his borrowed horse forward, racing to stay ahead of Samuel on the narrow dirt road to Sigismund’s camp. When he’s at the front, he can almost pretend Henry is the one nipping at his heels, like it’s just another friendly lap around the outer walls of Rattay. The pleasant fantasy helps steady the shaking in his hands, soothes the pit in his stomach. 

When Samuel retakes the lead – more frequently than Hans would care to admit – the vision shatters, replaced by one of Henry in a pool of his own blood, sword protruding from his gut through a gap in his armor. His thoughts are a frazzled mess: 

That’s exactly what you get for ignoring my orders, you insolent bastard. And if you’re not dead, I’ll kill you myself. 

I didn’t kiss you enough. We could both live to be 100, it still wouldn’t be enough. 

How did you do this to me?

I hate you. 

I fucking hate you.

What’s the point of any of it if you’re not by my side?

He can taste this morning’s ale sloshing up the back of his throat. He swallows, hard. 

It’s a relief when he spots a row of tall tents, early afternoon sun bouncing off strips of white fabric and crimson Praguer flags. At least this mess will be over soon, one way or another. Hans slows his mount, intent on scouting the area for signs of his wayward page or his rival. Although he’s never been inside, the makeshift settlement appears to be massive, a small city spread out behind a sprawling wooden fence. Henry knows the area well, so it’s possible he crept in through a side gate. Or, if Erik had ambushed him, he might not have made it beyond the entrance at all. 

The dark thought must not occur to Samuel, who barrels onward as fast as his exhausted horse will carry him. The green overcoat that covers his armor is a blur, and he almost fades into the lush countryside surrounding the encampment. Hans whistles to catch his attention.

“Samuel! Hold! We need to have a look around, first.”

For a beat, Samuel seems to ignore him. He continues his relentless push toward the main gate without so much as a glance over his shoulder. But before Hans can cry out again, he pulls back on the reins. His cheeks are flushed as he steers his brown mare in Hans’ direction, and he does little to hide the look of growing irritation on his face.

“If you must. Be quick about it.”

“Sir.”

The nobleman snaps. 

“Be quick about it, sir.”

Hans scowls but says nothing. Samuel is abrasive, unpredictable – but he’s not wrong. Henry had a decent head start on the pair. Any delay, even a calculated one, and they could be journeying back to Suchdol with a corpse. 

From his saddle, Hans casts a carefully trained hunter’s eye to the muddy ground. It’s a chaotic web of hoof and footprints, most heading away from the camp. Despite his nerves, he smiles. It’s exhilarating, imagining the chaos that must have engulfed the outpost just hours ago. Sigismund’s army of mercenaries abandoning their posts, ignoring their commanders. All because of their improbable victory at the Italian Court. 

You damn well better be alive, Henry, he thinks. You owe me a proper celebration for this. 

He clicks his tongue and gently eases his horse forward, scanning the path for any tracks leading in the opposite direction. It doesn’t take long to notice a trampled patch in the tall grass, then another, and another. He follows the trail with his eyes, and catches a glimpse of grey among the green. 

“Samuel. Look there. Just beyond the tree line.”

“I see it.”

“Follow me.”

An exasperated sigh from Samuel, who stares pointedly at the camp. 

“We are wasting time.”

“By arguing? For once, I agree with you. Follow me, now.”

Samuel mutters something in an unfamiliar language and rides toward the nearby woods ahead of Hans, who curses but quickly joins him. They approach the curious shape together. 

It doesn’t remain a mystery for long. After so many months of riding by her side, Hans recognizes Pebbles even through the thick foliage. She’s clearly distressed, knickering frantically and kicking her hooves into the soft mud underfoot. He climbs off his own mount and approaches her carefully. With a soft voice and one hand extended, he tries to soothe her as Henry would. He’s glad when she stills, and he gives her a gentle rub on the nose before turning back to Samuel, lingering behind.

“This is Henry’s horse. Sakra. He must have suspected something would go amiss – he hates leaving her unguarded like this.”

“Then as I said, we must hurry.”

A flick of the reins, and Samuel is facing the road. Before he can take off, Hans lunges for him. He manages to wrap his fingers around one of Samuel’s calves, holding him in place. He doesn’t speak until the rider reluctantly meets his steely glare. 

“Listen to me. This is a mission, like any other. Zizka isn’t here, so you’re under my command. Am I clear?”

Samuel looks down at him, considering. In one swift, fluid movement, he yanks his leg out of the young lord’s grasp and swings it to the other side of his seat. He dismounts expertly and strides over to Hans, stopping less than a pace away. He leans in, uncomfortably close. 

“I will do what it takes to see Henry back to safety. If your orders are competent, I’ll follow them. That is all I owe you.” 

If the ale had been any stronger, Hans might not have resisted the sudden, almost overwhelming urge to take a swing at the man in front of him. Instead, he balls his gloved hands into tight fists and pins his arms to his sides. He can feel his shoulders shaking, and he does his best to hold his voice steady. 

“No. That’s unacceptable, Samuel. If you pull something like what you did at Maleshov, you won’t just be risking your own life. I know you’d probably prefer it if I never walk out of that camp, but it’s also Henry’s neck on the line, and I won’t allow you to put him at risk.”

For perhaps the first time, Hans hears Samuel laugh. He bends forward, bracing himself against his knees. 

“I see. To be clear, if we find this Erik, your orders are to spare him? As we did with the murderer von Bergow? You’re truly a fearless leader, Capon. Your people must sleep well at night.”

Almost involuntarily, Hans raises a fist. He catches it just shy of his chin, and glances down to his feet before pointing a finger and wagging it in front of Samuel’s smirking face. 

“Stop putting words in my mouth. I’m saying we need to scout ahead first. Quickly and quietly. There’s no guarantee of a fair fight, and if Henry is out manned, we need to consider positioning. I’ll find somewhere I can get a shot off.” 

“If Henry is out manned, he simply needs more men. We should be there now, instead of bickering in the woods like useless fools. In fact…” 

Laughter gone from his voice, Samuel roughly knocks Hans’ hand away. He turns, lifting one foot into a stirrup.   

“I will be on my way. You are free to follow me, sir.”

Over the last hour, Hans has been chastised for cowardice by a serving wench, lectured about decency by a decrepit old lord, and invited to fuck himself by his peasant lover. The sarcasm dripping from that last syllable is more than he can endure. No. He’s not losing another fucking argument, and he’s not losing the insufferable, wonderful man who dragged him kicking and screaming into the middle of this debacle. 

His hand is on Samuel’s shoulder before he can climb into the saddle, and Hans pulls until they’re facing each other once again. This time, he’s the one who leans in too close, nearly brushing their noses together. He lowers his voice, so it’s just audible over the breeze ripping through the trees around them. 

“You’ll do no such thing. You’ll do as your superior commands.”

Samuel does not look rattled. Quite the opposite – he seems emboldened. His brown eyes are narrowed, mouth set in a firm line. 

“As I recall, I’ve never set foot in Rattay, Capon. I’ve pledged no fealty to you.”

“That’s not what this is about. He cannot die. I’m trying to give us the best opportunity to save him. And to do that, we can’t clamber in like steel-clad wild boar and make easy targets of ourselves. Do you understand?”

“I understand Henry’s death would be a great inconvenience to you. It would take time to train a new lackey who caters to your every whim, as my brother does.”

He would swing for that, in Rattay.

Instead, Hans clamps both hands around his shoulders and jerks forward, using his height to throw the shorter man off balance. He almost recovers, but not before Hans slams a forearm to his chest and forces him hard against the nearest oak. Samuel grunts as his helmet clangs against the bark. Hans staggers his feet and presses forward, pinning him. 

“Samuel. I really don’t give a single shit what you think about me. You can call me a drunk, a worthless layabout, a spoiled brat. I assure you, I’ve heard all that and worse from my uncle. But don’t you dare presume to know the first thing of who Henry is to me. He’s my best friend, saved my life half a dozen times before you even knew he existed, and if he’s dead in that camp, you might as well cut me down and tell Hanush you’re the new heir to fucking Rattay, because I refuse to go home without him. Do. You. Understand?”

Hans is breathing heavily. His furious glare is locked on Samuel, who doesn’t look away. As the seconds tick slowly past, Hans wishes he would, desperately. Those eyes of his are unnerving. Like they’re studying him for any sign of weakness. Or reading his thoughts. An irrational panic sweeps through him, as if Samuel could divine what happened the last time Hans pinned his brother against a tree. 

Still, he holds the stare, with a confidence he doesn’t quite feel. 

Samuel is the first to break the tense silence. 

“I understand. Lead on.”

Henry liked to tease his lord about his naturally expressive face, saying he almost always knew what Hans was thinking before he did. Told him that for a nobleman, he’s a terrible liar. It’s not until that moment, mouth open and eyes wide in confusion, that Hans realizes how much truth there is to the playful barb. He snaps his lips closed.    

“Lead…? Right.”

He clears his throat, finally removes his arm from Samuel’s chest. They both straighten, brush themselves off. 

“We–We’ll trust Henry’s instincts. Tie your horse off, quickly. We’ll go on foot to the camp. Try to track his movements, or listen for anything suspicious. That’s our best chance to take them by surprise.”

Without complaint, Samuel hitches his horse near Pebbles. I should have tried pinning Hanush to a tree years ago, Hans thinks, as he does the same. Maybe I’ll get out of this wedding yet.

Soon, they’re crossing the field into Sigismund’s camp. No arrows rain down on them from overhead, thank Christ. After all that, maybe Erik was fool enough to challenge Henry alone. Maybe he’s in the center of the outpost now, catching his breath. Getting ready to ride back to Hans, to grin and gloat and kiss him, to drag him into a secluded corner. He smiles, his face warm.  

They stick to the camp’s main thoroughfare, moving quickly and scanning the empty tents. Bow in hand, plan set, Hans feels steady on his feet for the first time in days. But as much as the sweet daydream of their reunion has carried him this far, he can’t stop his overactive mind from drifting to those last moments in the stairwell. What had he whispered? In his final, frantic attempt to get Henry to stay? That he wished all their time together had meant nothing? God, if that’s the last thing he’ll ever say to him… 

He wonders if this is how Henry felt, a confused jumble of nerves, crawling through the dark passageways of Maleshov to rescue him. He was always so much better at blocking out the noise, at focusing on the task. 

Samuel pulls him from his thoughts by throwing an arm in front of him. 

“Stop. Do you hear that?”

He does – it’s loud, a man’s voice. But something is off about it. Out of place, in the eerie silence of these deserted grounds. It sounds like…

Laughter?