Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Skalitz burns again that night. 

But it burns most nights. A new-old ache long carved into Henry’s bones. He’s grown numb over these past months, looking dully over the crackling wreckage. 

He doesn’t have time for despair. Not enough hours in the day to dwell. The memory-dream is as much a reason to get out of bed as it is to stay. But rotting won’t kill Istvan, save of old age. It won’t get Radzig’s sword back. It won’t stop Sigismund and von Aulitz from scorching their way across Bohemia.  

The dream is different tonight, though. He doesn’t die while distracting the Cumans away from Theresa, or run back to his parents, or simply collapse in a heap. Henry makes it to Talmberg. Fire follows in his wake, the screaming of peasants piercing his ears no matter how hard he rides.

The weird, red-drenched landscape screams of danger, while smokey-edged visuals cast Sir Robard into doubt. He looks at Henry like a man with a secret.

Then it's hours later. The sun long set and a familiar face come to visit. But that night something sinister alights in Lady Stephanie’s smile. Someone else disguising their plans to exploit him as sympathy. Henry brokenly recounts the horrors and she grins, lips threatening to split her cheeks as she caresses his jaw. For he will be useful.

There’s a stink of fear in the air as Radzig forbids him from going back to Skalitz. Pride rots with Radzig’s flesh, globules of gangrene falling out of his trousers when the army finally gallops away. They both know Henry will be a disappointment, even before he disobeys the order. 

(He's failed the test simply by surviving.)

He scrambles back to Skalitz in a haze. The fog closes in, steadily narrowing his vision. By the time Henry stumbles into the bandit –the first man he ever killed –he can see naught but a few paces away. The man goes down screaming, refusing to surrender. He curses Henry to hell in his final blood-flecked breaths. Henry, in turn, looks at the body. Glances at the newly-blooded sword. 

This isn’t what Martin wanted. What Ma wanted. What anyone wanted. 

Meadow flowers line the side of the path, swaying serenely in the breeze. They are blue and white and bloodied. On a whim, Henry kicks the corpse into the patch. Some blossoms are crushed under the weight, but the decomposing body will feed them later. Strengthen the patch as a whole. 

It’s a better “burial” than the man deserves. Better than Henry expects to get.

He examines the horizon--sees the spires of smoke curling into midday sky. Flames lick into the air, smoldering out under a blanket of apathy. Circling the village, bodies cloaked in rags swing in the wind. The closest is a few paces away, still twitching. Drawn like a fish on a lure, Henry walks over. 

The sun rises and falls in the course of ten steps. It comes round again just as he peers to examine the (almost) body–Fingers spasm at its sides, neck bruising at the constriction. Morbid, he walks closer, catching sight of lips swelling purple. The mouth opens, croaking out a final plea with its last breath–-

“Hhhh-en . . . ry.” Something cracks in his chest as Henry looks the man in the eye--recognizes the watering blue. The sooty gold frames his face as he attempts to smile. A crushed nose drips rivulets of blood down a maw missing half its teeth. 

The hooded figure is made resplendent in the sunlight. 

Then, between one breath and the next, he’s gone. 

Henry stares from the ground. Watches where the blood pools under steadily whitening skin. Observes as eyes glaze over and limbs go slack. Wonders what the fool was even doing here to begin with. (Perhaps to save Henry from the inevitable.) 

He’s too late again. Always, always too late.  

Henry squeezes the hilt of Radzig’s sword. Walks away from the body. Goes to find the remaining bandits tearing Skaltiz to pieces. Carves his way through man after man until Runt runs him through with his own sword. 

. . . 

Henry awakens with a jolt, Theresa’s cries fading into the night. Cold sweat drips down his back, all but soaking the bed. The roof of von Bergow’s barracks looms overhead, simultaneously threatening to crush him and float off hundreds of miles away.

His breath comes in gasps, breaking the unsteady silence.

Jesus Christ. 

Hands shaking, Henry grips the mattress to force them steady. He hasn’t been bested by his dreams in months. Won’t let this  . . . sudden addition do him in. 

Fucking Capon. 

God. Is Hans still alive? Henry didn’t fail? They talked with von Bergow some hours ago, promised to ride for help? They had to. If he’d actually watched Hans’ hanging Henry wouldn’t have been far behind. Shouldn’t have been far behind. 

But what if he didn’t? What if Hans’ diplomacy with von Bergow and tantrum with the Chamberlain was yet a dream? One final delusion before reality gripped Henry once more?

No. No. He’s just being a stupid peasant. Overreacting. Hans is safely snoring away in his own chambers while Henry’s having this asinine conversation with himself.  

Obviously. 

. . . 

Henry lasts all of thirty seconds before climbing out of bed, pulling on his hose and shirt, and going to find the idiot. 

Sneaking about the castle will be significantly easier in the dark, especially when necessity has required him to memorize the layout. He’s being a moron and if Hans ever finds out Henry will never hear the end of it. Perhaps even be laughed out of Rattay. But tonight that doesn’t matter. 

He can’t go to bed wondering. Can’t try to sleep with that image in his head and expect to wake up sane. 

So, he pulls up a cutpurse’s stolen hood and disappears into the night. 

. . . 

It takes longer to find Hans’ room than he’d like to admit, but Henry manages. He only plans on peaking inside, confirm that Capon still breathes, then slink back again. This is turning into enough of a production without walking inside, or Heaven forbid, waking the man up. 

He winces as the door creaks open. At least Capon is a heavy sleeper-–oh, shite. 

Henry dodges just as a sword slashes through the gap. Jesus. Did he just interrupt a fucking assassination? Is it already complete? Is Ulrich so petty a bastard that he would call for this? Did von Bergow set them up?? Is Hans bleeding out in his fucking bed? 

Henry grimaces, mourning the choice to leave his sword and dagger behind. Too late now. He’ll make do on bloodlust alone if the worst has happened. 

The door bangs open and Henry tackles the man, ready to go down swinging. He narrowly misses a sword to the gut, reaching back as he prepares to beat the attacker to death-–Oh GODDAMNIT. 

Henry sits back on his heels, laughing into his fist. Hans squirms underneath him, not yet recognizing the hooded man who tried to break into his room. 

“Kurva! Get off you brigand! Once I’m standing you won’t be cackling near as hard, foul-–HENRY?” Utterly lost to his chortling, Henry gives a weak “Aye.” The two of them have probably woken half the castle with their fucking idiocy, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

“You nearly scared me to death you fucking oaf! I about ran you through! Is knocking a foreign concept to the peasantry? Or was your father so often banging away at the smithy that any attempts were lost in the racket?! Stop laughing you fucking ingrate–” Capon, the great hypocrite, is lost to his own snickering by rant’s end.  

“Aye, sir Hans, blame me for nearly getting sliced in half. How very noble. ” Henry chuckles, looking down at the man between his legs. Capon is busy turning beet red, staring at the far wall. Henry pointedly nudges the sword with his foot and Hans lets it clamor to the floor. The man crosses his arms over his chest in a pout. 

“Yes, yes. Big bad Henry has gotten the best of me once again. No need to rub it in–”

“--As if you’d let me live it down if our positions were reversed.”

Somehow, Hans flushes even deeper.  

“I–I. Uh. Ahem. Yes. No. I wouldn’t– Jesus Henry do you eat millstones when I’m away? Get off before you crush me to death!” Henry snorts, standing so that his ladyship can smooth out his rumpled skirts. Hans kicks him in the shin before rolling away, brushing his sleeves free of imaginary dirt while he stands. 

“Anyway Henry, what the hell are you even doing here? The sun’s still down! It’s too early for us to ride out. And just this . . . shite in general.” Capon grimaces, unsure of himself even as he asks the question. Henry can’t blame the man. The situation is . . . odd. 

Hans nearly died. So here Henry is, breaking into the man’s room under cover of darkness. 

Bodyguards don’t do this shite. Nor do squires. But friends . . .? Maybe. Maybe in formerly hostile territory under an unfamiliar roof, friends do this. 

“I was checking in, Sir Hans. Making sure you hadn’t managed to perish while I wasn’t looking.” The again is left unsaid, but Capon winces all the same. He goes to pick up the sword, pretending to examine the blade while he formulates a response. 

“Yes. Well, Henry . . . scaring the shite out of me aside, I am glad you’re here. Was thinking of going out to find you, actually. Truth be told I’ve been laying on this damned bed for hours, staring at the ceiling. I’ve tried counting sheep, reciting psalms, everything. At some point I must have fallen asleep though, because when I awoke I could have sworn you were–” Hans suddenly turns away, clutching the sword to his chest. 

Henry’s heart breaks a little. 

“Seems we’ve had similar problems, then. In getting to sleep, that is.” And who could blame them, “But if we don’t manage some rest we’ll be useless on the ‘morrow. So . . .” Hans turns, eyebrows raised. Curious, still red, eyes tight with . . . something. “How about you go back to bed and I’ll take up a post outside. Guards rarely come this way and I can make off for the barracks once the sun finally gets to rising.” Hans’ eyebrows scrunch, somewhere between disappointed and relieved. Strange. 

“I–well. I wouldn’t be opposed. But when the fuck will you sleep?” 

“I’ll find something to hide behind. Maybe take a nap next to some boxes I saw on the way up. Wouldn’t be the worst place I’ve slept in. At least the castle is heated.” Capons laughs, incredulous. 

“You’re really going to sit at my door? Watching over the threshold and snapping at any who dare cross?” 

“Yes.” Sometimes less is more with Hans. Henry plants his feet, staring straight ahead, expecting to be told to fuck off. 

. . . 

The contest of wills is a short one. Hans blinks first, more confused than anything. 

“Jesus, Henry. Are you sure you aren’t trying for sainthood? Fine. You’ve got your mind set and I’m too tired to argue. Just don’t blame me when you wake up with an aching back. And don’t expect me to help you mount Pebbles if you can’t do it yourself.” 

Henry shrugs. He can sleep tonight or he can have a functional spine. Sleep is more important. As is keeping an eye on Hans.

He won’t be too late again.  

Henry escorts himself out once Hans has settled back into bed. Finding a place with sufficient cover isn’t hard. He sits down, truly at ease for the first time in months. Capon’s breathing evens out a few minutes later, and Henry isn’t long to join him.

Chapter Text

Talking with Ulrich is always a chore, but Henry’s options are to do the man’s bidding or stand around bored for the rest of the day. And if he does that he’ll end up gnawing off his arm. 

So. “Investigating” the Chamberlain’s reports of “demons” will have to do. Assisted by naught but dubiously holy water, Henry is certain this will be fine. At least this foolishness has given him free reign of the castle. For now. 

"If you're looking for more information, Erazim here can educate you." Ulrich waves a hand, dismissing Henry in favor of lunch. 

It would be impolite to not ask him, what with the scribe being right there, but Henry cringes with every word spoken. Bruises the shape of his fingers indent the man’s neck, a damning collar if ever there was one. It’s a lucky thing that Erazim doesn’t know who caused it. The guards are still looking for a brigand no one can describe--a man who, coincidentally, appeared just before Hans Capon's execution.

Surely these two facts have nothing to do with each other.  

Having thoroughly gotten away with it, Henry feels all the more guilty. The only punishment for his actions will be that which he himself inflicts. Or God’s next test. 

Awkward conversation concluded, Henry makes off for the cooks and blacksmith. Manyeta is closest, a nice enough lass. She says that the hearths in the Crone’s tower are to blame, you see. And he really should wait until nightfall to purge them, what with demons probably needing to sleep and all. And really, if he wanted, Henry would be more than welcome in the kitchen past midnight. The door might be locked, however, and he might need to find Manyeta in her chambers to open it . . .

"Certainly, miss."

Talking to Orsina is at least fast (and free of flirtations). The man complains about some "infernally evil smell" that's "all sulfur and hellfire" coming from the barracks before returning to his work. If it weren't for the CLANG! of the hammer, Henry could swear he heard a chuckle. 

Sigh. 

He goes to Crone’s tower next, intent on gathering the rest of his information--Only for Bertha to recount a story that is so clearly caused by rats Henry becomes afraid that she’s having him on.

She is not.

Nine drops and every third must be bigger than those proceeding. Christ almighty. And Hans thinks he’s superstitious. An oft-worn cross and habit of praying by roadside shrines is nothing in comparison to the people of Trosky Castle.

Thoroughly uninterested in dragging this out until nightfall, Henry sweeps through the Crone’s tower. He’s already here; may as well make the most of it.

The place is as he remembered it, though less of a maze. With Capon's neck no longer on the line Henry is able to take his time. To examine the portraits and the ceremonial weapons as he douses each hearth. There’s history here, one he’s not noble enough to understand. Still, the craftsmanship is considerable, even if it bears crests he does not recognize.

Hans was right before—von Bergow has money.

The little devil that sits atop Henry’s shoulder begins to whisper--It suggests that von Bergow certainly doesn’t need all the swords and armor. It's all just. Lying about. Unused. The guards certainly aren't allowed at them. All these beautiful pieces reduced to a life of polished showboating, never to have their steel truly tested. Isn’t that such a tragedy? Shouldn't someone do something about that.

The damn thing has always been there, making “suggestions.” But it’s gotten louder since Henry last succumbed—Knocking a man out and robbing him blind. It was for a good cause, of course. All so Henry wouldn’t have to watch Capon hang.

He sighs. He really ought to pay the fucking indulgence.

. . .

Chore complete, Henry wanders down to the practice ring. One of the guards mentioned a sword master and it's peaked his curiosity. 

Of course, Henry expects to see a grizzled veteran. A scarred man with decades of war stories to tell. Someone who’s tested their metal from Hungary to Poland. A consummate authority with armor dented and—

Oh?

The man standing at the ring is about Henry’s age, dressed in black and red. His plate is scratched but functional. Likely part of a complete set that wasn’t stripped from bandits. He leans against the railing with a casual confidence, hand never truly leaving his sword. His stance is almost . . . statuesque.

Hair, dark as coal, covers most of his face. But even from several paces away Henry can see the shine in his eyes. Can see that he's being watched. 

(And isn’t that just a little exciting?) 

Henry walks over, introducing himself. Black Bartosch, the man responds, a smidge embarrassed. He’s recently won some tourneys and thus earned an epithet, however silly. In fact, Bartosh won the tourneys so well that von Bergow invited him to the castle. 

So he too is a bodyguard. But where Henry has been doing this for months Bartosch has for years. Half a decade more experience, honed by being a proper noble knight with a proper education. University in Prague and he claims to not be a man of letters! Christ. 

Henry squints as they speak, exchanging stories. He sees another life in this man. What might have been if ma was a noble, or stayed on as a maid, or folks were just kinder. But the thought passes quickly. He loved his parents, as Bartosch likely loves his. He wouldn't trade them for anything, and wishing for another life would likely keep him from ever meeting Hans.

What’s more important is today and what Henry can become tomorrow. 

And what will happen if he challenges this knight to a spar.

“I would love nothing more.” There’s a flash in Bartosch’s eyes, a smirk partially hidden beneath his mustache. “Though perhaps we should switch to wooden swords if that is going to be your only protection.” He stares pointedly at the top of Henry’s head, valiantly trying not to laugh.

It is then that Henry realizes he’s wearing a flower crown.

Jesus Christ.

“Achk! My apologies sir, I forgot. I can, er . . ." He reaches up, about to take the silly thing off—

“No, no. It’s cute. Leave it be.” Bartosch winks, turning just before Henry can burst into flame (Saints be praised). He shoves the strange, giddy feeling as far down it will go and tries to take on the affect of someone intimidating.

Flowers be damned.

His efforts lead to a rather lot of comedic frowning and Bartosch just guffaws. "You are a funny man, Henry of Skalitz."
Truly, an auspicious start. 

Once Henry is done making a fool of himself they ready their weapons. As longswords Bartosch's specialty, this will likely be a one-sided match. But Henry’s had his arse handed to him enough by Bernard to know how to lose gracefully. And how to keep his dignity intact when wildly outclassed. 

It’s an even trade if blows at first—block, strike, block, DODGE, block. But Henry tires more easily these days, his shoulder forever twinging in protest. By the time Bartosch stops testing him, begins to hit for real, Henry’s sweating through his gambeson. He's panting like a dog, about to growl out of pure frustration. 

Bartosch strikes like lightning—unpredictable yet devastating. Dodging becoming near impossible and blocking a hit is bound to do near as much damage as not. Henry, meanwhile, seems to have inflicted no injury at all--The man’s posture is still perfect, with barely a hair out of place. It’s infuriating and maybe a bit attractive.

Block, block, dodge, BLOCK—

Barely holding back a flurry of blows, Henry grimly realizes he only has one shot at maintaining his dignity—a successful master strike. Whether Bartosch knows the technique or not remains to be seen, but if Henry can just wait for his chance . . .

Dodge, dodge, DODGE, block, RUN—

Kurva, he needs to make this quick. Henry examines his opponent from a few paces away. The knight waits as they both catch their breath. There’s amusement on Bartosch’s face, but his stance is readied. For all that Henry is being taken for a ride, he’s still considered a threat. 

Good.

Henry takes a second to clear his mind, remembering the monks and their chants back in the monastery. He still can’t grasp the words, but he remembers the calm. The feeling of kneeling for hours, concentrating on nothing. Grabbing it now, he settles. Another breath and he can think again, analyze with due focus.

He decides on a plan.

Henry strides forward, right side conspicuously exposed. Bartosch is smart enough to realize where he hesitates. Now, is he smart enough to see the bait?  

Henry strikes first, lashing out just hard enough to make the knight think he’s serious. Bartosch takes the bait, blocking . . . just before winding up to attack on the right. In that second Henry does not block, breaking their combined rhythm. He swings from the left, praying he's just fast enough-- 

Henry hits home. His wooden sword CRACKs against the breastplate with such force that it snaps in half. (The sword, not the breastplate.) Henry dodges after, trying to create distance.

Running on instinct, he only looks up when no retaliation comes. 

All he sees is Bartosch grinning like a madman, eyes sparkling in the afternoon glow. Sun at his back, beaming with pride, the knight looks like a painting. Henry once again thinks of the monastery, but something else comes to mind--The worshipful pieces the monks poured their souls into. Of gilded pages and beautiful faces carved into luxurious paper. Of hearts dedicated to God made full by their art. 

He snaps out of it when Bartosch claps a hand on his shoulder, declaring the exercise both a success and over. What with Henry accidentally disarming himself. 

He flushes, despairing having shaved today. When he next gets a proper helmet, visor intact, it is never coming off. 

Still, before letting himself be shoo’d off, Henry asks to be shown one of Bartosch’s longsword techniques. He doesn’t want to win any tourneys, at least not today. But anything he can learn is another step towards becoming a true master. 

The knight agrees, even giving a discount (with a wink). It’s a productive hour for them both, featuring a bit less dirt eating than Henry expected. Having made a new . . . acquaintance, he leaves with a nod.

 . . . And turns around not ten steps later because he did come this way for a reason and it was not meeting handsome young swordsmen. Bartosch smirks as Henry walks past, barely killing the urge to overexplain why he’s suddenly returned. The knight does not care about the “demons” (rats) and Henry can go where he pleases. So he should stop thinking about any of this immediately and go back to work. 

Right now. 

Jesus Christ. 

Upon discovering that Osina, the fool, has led him to the barracks’ privy, Henry deeply considers jumping over the castle wall. Perhaps he should go see Ignacius. Or give up the adventuring business entirely and become a full time shepherd. 

But that would leave Hans along again, wouldn’t it? 

Certainly can't have that. The idiot would talk himself back on the chopping block within a day. 

Steeling himself, Henry sets his shoulders. He walks out of the privy like a man who absolutely intended to be there and just had the best shite. Or something to that effect. (Bartosch, ever the gentleman, refrains from catcalling about it.) 

He still wants to punch Osina.

Very, very badly. 

“Aye, that’s my fault! I meant to send you to—“ Henry doesn’t believe it for a minute, but he’s on his way to the Maiden tower anyhow. May as well complete the task so Osina shuts up about it. (He’ll bend the man’s horseshoes tonight. Make the whole fucking stock useless when the arse wakes on the morrow.) 

Putting the moron out of his mind, Henry’s thoughts turn to Bartosch.

The man is impressive, after all. So young and yet, aside from von Bergow himself, likely the greatest threat in Trosky Castle. A former (current?) mercenary, the knight is dangerous the way Henry is dangerous. More so, for now, until Henry can sharpen himself back to before the fall. 

A shiver rolls down his spine as he sprinkles water upon the last hearth. Henry’s had far too many enemies in the past five months, faced far too much danger, but he will always yearn for a challenge. Just, preferably one that isn’t trying to kill him. 

Like Hans. Tested against each other they’ve improved by leaps and bounds. As close to rivals as a noble and peasant can be. And now, it seems Bartosch might fit that mold as well. Though, Christ, Henry has a lot of catching up to do . . .

But isn’t that the fun of it? Of finding someone wildly beyond him, a wall of skill he couldn’t possibly climb? Until months later, when they’ve ground him into someone unrecognizable? Until they’re fighting on even footing? Until it’s an equal race to the top?

Quest competed, Henry wanders back to Ulrich, nodding as needed to the man’s bloviating. He’s given a few trinkets and a bag of groschen for his troubles, but Henry’s head is too stuck in the clouds to appreciate it. 

For however long their stay in Trosky, Bartosch will be an interesting opponent.

Perhaps even an interesting friend.

Chapter Text

Bored, Hans begins to wander down to the stables early. Aethon could use the company, and Henry’s likely sleeping back in the barracks. Well, provided he hasn’t sleepwalked to the border of Bohemia. Christ, wouldn’t that be a lovely start to the morning.  

Hans is tempted to check on the man, never mind that Henry can take care of himself. (And that something in his gut says the squire wouldn’t go anywhere Hans couldn’t follow. Not even unconsciously.) However, the worry remains. 

. . . 

Oh, who exactly is he kidding ? Hans finishes lacing his boots and makes for the barracks. Time to go find the big lug. 

Besides, if Hans is truly questioned, his squire’s somnambulance is a perfect excuse. It’s certainly gotten them into trouble before—the fever being a recent example. Back in Rattay guards mostly kept him safe, but that didn’t stop Henry from walking into some sticky situations. 

The Dung Heap incident comes to mind . . . 

Chuckling, Hans forges on. The smithy is in sight now, and soon too will be Henry. Though, Christ, there is an unholy racket coming from the anvil. Honestly, it’s a surprise that Osina is up this early. Perhaps the lout has a quota to mee—oh it’s Henry.

. . . 

Why in God’s name is that fucking peasant hammering away at the forge? Are those fucking horseshoes? Kurva , they look like they’ve seen a war. But, more to the point—WHY IS HE DOING IT AT FIVE IN THE FUCKING MORNING?!

How has no one told Henry to fuck off? Jesus, these people could sleep through Judgement Day. The man’s been at— this for a while, considering the perspiration.

Any thoughts Hans might have had towards the image of Henry, alight at the forge, grunting and sweating are pushed to the side by pure bewilderment. He’ll have a crisis about this later. NOW is the time for answers. (And to walk up very noisily, because his squire seems to be rather focused, and Hans doesn’t want to be welcomed by a hammer to the skull.)

“Henry!” The clanging continues, though its perpetrator nods in acknowledgement. My, this is serious. 

“Aye, sir Hans. What brings you by this early? I would have thought—urgh—that you would have savored an extra hour in bed.” 

“Normally yes, my dear blacksmith. But worry over von Bergow’s plight drew me from my chambers!” Henry snorts, “As such, I rose early. We must have all our things together, lest the castle be attacked. What would we do then?”

“Offer the attackers our dear Chamberlain as tribute?” 

Hans laughs, pretending to give it a think. “You have a disproportionate amount of brilliant ideas for a peasant, don’t you Henry?” 

A grin breaks through the focus, “One of us has to, milord.” 

“Is that how you speak to your betters, blacksmith’s boy?!” 

The smile widens, its somber illusion finally breaking. “I don’t know sir, one would have to be before me.” 

Henry is very lucky that he is holding a smoldering orange horseshoe because Hans would have decked him by now. Or thrown a beer in his face. Perhaps both. Today, he settles for sticking his tongue out, letting the topic drop. Allowing the peasant win only proves how magnanimous a noble he truly is. 

The next few minutes are quiet as Hans watches him work. Capon soon begins to notice something, however . . . 

“Henry.”

“Hm.”

“Now. Stop me if I’m wrong. (Which I'm not.) Perhaps this is some strange craftsman . . . thing but aren’t you hammering those horseshoes out of shape?”

“Indeed, milord.”

Hans waits a beat. 

No explanation is forthcoming. 

Oh this is fucking ridiculous. 

“Henry.”

“Hm?”

“Why?”

“Osina’s a cunt.”

. . .

. . . ?

. . . ?!!

“Henry.”

“Mhhmm.”

“You’re my best friend. I love you like a brother,” Lies , “If anyone tried to take you from me, I would not rest until the whole of the Lords of Leipa were calling for their head.” True, “But if I do not get a satisfactory answer to my question in the next fifteen seconds I will kill you.” 

Finally, Henry looks up. Capon is met with a look so incomprehensibly rife with mischief it doesn’t fit the man’s face. “Osina thought he could have a laugh at my expense while I was doing the chamberlain’s bidding. Instead of punching him in the mouth, I took it upon myself to undo all of his work for the day.” Hans looks at the carefully stacked piles of dented horseshoes, axe heads, breastplates, and other assorted nonsense. 

“Henry . . .”

“Hm?”

“Are you telling me Osina, that Osina, managed to get all of this done in a day ?” 

“Ha! I’d bet von Bergow wishes. No, no. This is all his stock for the past month .” 

Jesus Christ. 

It is at this point that Hans realizes he is one lucky bastard. And that he should never , under any circumstances, piss Henry off. 

“I . . . Don’t know if I should be impressed or terrified. Both? I think I’ll settle for both. Anyways Henry, aren’t you about done destroying the man’s livelihood? The sun’s rising and funny as it would be to see his expression in person we really can’t afford to get in trouble with von Bergo—“ 

“Well, well, well! Look at what we have here!” Hans freezes as Osina himself walks into the forge, clapping Henry on the shoulder. “That’s quite the pile you’ve got there. Had to work all night on it, I bet? Quality leaves something to be desired, though, doesn’t it? All that work and the result’s no better than the scrap it came from. Well, lad, if you ever need smithing advice I suppose you’ll have to come to me .” Henry, truly proving his worth as a contender for sainthood, lets every word slide off his back. Just hums an affirmative. Bangs out a few “finishing touches” before moving to leave. 

Hans, however, would suddenly love nothing more than to punch Osina in the face. 

There is a long, awkward pause as Henry refuses to answer, only putting his tools back where they belong. Osina, grimaces with the lack of response. Hans is about to uncurl his fingers, hiding the fist in his pocket before anyone can clock the threat, when Osina does something truly stupid. 

He picks up one of the damned horseshoes. 

“Ha! These look like they were made by the horse himself. Are you sure you were raised by a blacksmith, boy?”

Still no response. Henry says nothing as he hangs the smithy apron, cleaning complete. Only Hans is looking close enough to see the muscle jump in his jaw. The red creeping up his neck. Osina, still unsatisfied, continues to open his big, fat mouth.

“What a mighty fucking disappointment you must be—“

Faster than the eye can track, Henry has whips the hammer past Osina’s jaw. It breezes by his face to smash head-first into the wall. The wood splinters before it clatters to the ground. 

All noise in the slowly awakening courtyard comes to a halt.

Osina, to his credit, does not immediately shit himself.

Henry, face still disturbingly passive, shoulder checks the man as he walks by. He picks the hammer up before sauntering back to Osina. Murder lights in his eyes and for one terrifying second Hans fears he's going to see a man be beaten to death. (And then he'll have to pay off witnesses and help hide the body and it'll just be a horrible fucking mess--) 

“I think you lost this.” A growl rumbles through Henry’s voice like an avalanche, equal parts terrifying and something Hans dare not name.

The hammer is pressed into the shaking hands of its owner. Henry turns around without a word, Capon quick to follow.

Well. Alright then. 

. . . 

Horses collected and tack secured, Hans knows this is once again a terrible time to apologize, but after all that shite with Osina he’d feel like an arse for not trying. Better, this time. 

“Listen, I know I acted like a proper fucking idiot but—“ Henry beats him to the punch. Or the hug, really.

They’re atop their horses, in public, turning the awkward one-armed affair into something of a spectacle. But Henry plays it off like he's trying to knock Hans off his saddle (the fucking bastard nearly managing it) and he can't help but feel cheered.  

No one looks twice. 

Capon goes to jostle the bastard back, their shenanigans lasting until they’re out of Trosky’s gates. Stupid arseholes and hanging platforms long behind them. 

Then it’s Henry’s turn to speak.

“We’ve had our differences, our . . .  arguments, but never forget that you can rely on me. Always. I’ll come for you. No matter who’s in my way. You have my word as a squire and a blacksmith. There's no one I'd rather be in this shite with.” 

Hans . . . Doesn’t quite know what to say to that. Henry’s pledged himself quite beyond the scope of a bodyguard. Perhaps even beyond the scope of a friend . . . and he doesn’t have any idea where that leaves them.  Still, what can he do but reciprocate? This . . . Slightly-more-than-friendship between them might be all he gets. Might already be too much to ask for.

“And I wouldn’t want anyone else by my side, shite or otherwise! You have my word as a nobleman.” 

Henry nods, satisfied. Hans wishes he could say the same. But, there’s little else he can do for the moment—Ah! 

“Bozhena! And Pavlena. Those two have put up with far too much from us and I did promise them a reward. Here, Henry, I managed some extra groschen while out . . . hunting. Take it and pay the women back—“ 

“No need, sir. I took care of it for the both of us.”

St. Henry, earning his title once more. 

“Truly, Henry, what did I do to deserve you?” 

The man snorts and Pebbles wickers in agreement. “Get your noble arse in so much trouble God Himself demanded you have extra help!” The coward gallops off while Hans is still processing the insult(?). 

“You arsehole! Get back here, Henry!!”

All he's given is laughter caught by the wind, smothered by an almighty pounding of hooves.

Chapter Text

The few hours to ride to Nebakov are made easier with Capon by his side. Eager to have life go back to (it’s admittedly unsteady) normal, Henry is happy to exchange jests. A month in the woods has done the fool good, it seems. 

“Now, you see Henry, those of us experienced in the ways of the forest will know that the moss on that tree trunk means—“ Half an hour of being explained things he already knows, and Henry is still grinning. Hans, despite himself, has learned something. 

The woods were always their solace, where they first came together, where they learned not to hate each other. Capon loves them as much as Henry does, though before now he tried to hide it behind a mask of nobility. Forcibly stripped of pretense, the man now cheerfully rambles on about basic shite like it’s a grand revelation from Christ Himself. 

A day out from the near hanging and he’s able to smile. Henry couldn’t fucking imagine. But he does admire the resilience. 

Hans is a better man than most will admit, even to himself. A lord worthy of admiration. And riding here, listening to all he’s learned with the ugliness of Trosky long behind them, is proof of that. 

“What in God’s name has got you smiling so much? All I’ve been talking about is what mushrooms will give you the shits as opposed to violent hallucinations. Are you plotting my downfall, peasant? Or did you stuff a few suspicious fungi down your gob while I wasn’t looking?” 

“Aye, sir. Every time you go to pat Aethon or throw your hands to the Almighty I’ve been hiding redcaps in my cheeks.” 

“Hmmmm. Your face does look a mite fatter than usual—“ Henry chucks his water skein at the rat bastard, an attack Hans is more than willing to reciprocate. 

. . .

The warmth of the weather is all that prevents them from showing up to Nebakov sopping wet. Prudence certainly didn’t play any part. 

They stop before patrols can see them coming, attempting to collect their sodden dignity. Trying to pat his hair back into place but bereft of a mirror, Hans asks if anything is out of place. Henry, ever the loyal squire, accidentally loses his mind and brushes a stray lock behind Capon's ear.

They spend the rest of the trot to the castle unable to look each other in the eye. (The mutual agreement to forget the incident is left unsaid.) 

Upon arriving, Hans does his opening speech. Grand gestures and all. A bit of the bratty noble reappears when the guard expresses hesitance, and Henry tries not to chuckle. Hans might find it demoralizing, or some such.

The guard eventually succumbs, going to inform Lord Jaromier. The portcullis rises not long after and Henry lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. All of this was starting to look worryingly familiar . . . 

Sir Jaromier himself is not quite what Henry expected. Certainly, he acts the part of a noble, greeting them appropriately and without complaint . . . But the mace hanging from his belt tells an odd story. Ask anyone, the sword is a noble’s weapon. He who wields a mace expects to be bashing shields, skulls, or both. Judging by the nicks and dents, it’s seen real battle as well. Not just the showpiece Henry would have expected.

He’s also dressed, hm . . . A bit oddly? Almost out of fashion, for nobility--A black gambeson, unadorned save by an embroidered hood. Though it looks close in quality to what Henry’s wearing than Hans. No rings or other jewelry? White hose? Strange choices from a man with so many horses at his command. Most of his station would try to show their wealth a bit more.  

But perhaps might be misjudging the man. Hans and von Bergow can defend themselves quite well, what’s to stop this Sir Jaromier from doing the same? Especially with bandits about. Hans doesn’t seem to feel anything off, and he’s certainly more well-versed with noble habits than Henry. And their early arrival might have caught the man off guard. Hans has certainly looked worse—Just tumbled out of bed and off to see a diplomat with a hangover still dogging his heels.

Attempting to shut away the part of his mind that never stops looking for signs of trouble (near impossible since Skalitz), Henry tries to turn his “peasant charm” on the assigned nanny—A guard named Michael. Red haired and easy to smile, they make small talk while the nobles prattle on upstairs. 

Well, it would be small talk, Henry supposes, if it didn’t sound so much like an interrogation.

“Why are you here?” Standard. “How many men does von Bergow have?” Reasonable turn to the conversation. “Is this Lord Capon important?” . . . Extremely fucking suspicious. 

“Only to his uncle, at the moment. But he will be, some day.” Henry’s tone brokers no follow up questions.

“Of course, of course. But then, I have to ask, what are you in all this?” 

Except for one. 

“A bodyguard. Dedicated to keeping his lord, and friend, safe from harm. I’ll dispense whatever wisdom I can supply, when he asks, but my job otherwise is to take care of problems.” It seems a bit of underhandedness will be required for this job. Michael grins, rather despite himself judging by the following wince. 

“Aye. He’ll do well to have a loyal man at his back. But here, what’s say we pass the time with some practice? Have a friendly match in the name of our lords?” Henry knows when he’s being sized up. The last fifteen minutes have been just that, and shifting the conversation hasn’t changed that. The smart move would be to refuse, keep his cards close to the chest—

“Of course. I’d be honored.”

But Henry can never say no to a challenge.

Michael, a truly magnanimous man, offers him a blunted blade, “Just so’s neither of us does any real damage.” Michael, of course, keeps his shield.

A true saint, this one.

The two circle each other in the ring, each giving their practice swings. Sussing Michael out is fairly easy—he’s seen his share of battles, fights like he’s used to having someone behind him. Henry manages a few good strikes from an unguarded blind spot because of it. But Michael gives as good as he gets. Towards the end of the bout both fighters are bloodied and panting.  

“Ready to give up yet?” Blood stains the man’s teeth, some clotting his hair to his skull. It suits him more than the put-together perfection of earlier. Friendly fight indeed. 

“That wouldn’t much honor Lord Capon now would it?” Henry’s tempted to kick the man in the shins—put him off balance for a master strike . . . 

Radzig raises a disappointed eyebrow somewhere to the left of his shoulder.  

. . . But that would be telling. Damn common sense. Or counterintelligence. Or being a good soldier. He wants to win . 

Radzig frowns. It’s mostly lost under the facial hair, but the downturn of his eyes makes it clear enough.

Henry sighs. Commits harder to the left than he should. And absorbs an almighty blow to his right. 

OOF.

Jesus Christ right in the fucking shoulder. 

Henry drops his practice sword immediately and that brings an end to things. Michael is allowed his smug look but otherwise takes the win more gracefully. More so than expected. The men cheer but discourse quickly, back to working on the “fortifications” that no one is allowed to see.

“If you took half as much a beating as I did lad, you’d best go see Klara.” Henry, halfway to pulling a marigold potion out of his pack, looks at the man dubiously. “It’s the least we can do! Go on, she doesn’t bite.” 

. . . 

“Usually.” Michael leaves with a warning look that has Henry utterly mystified. If anything he should be careful of a woman who apparently goes around biting peo—oh.

Hm. 

Well, that’s more Hans’ problem, usually. Henry’s a bit busy for that sort of extracurricular anyhow. (He’s also worried that any rolls in the hay would end with a dagger in the back. His, most likely.) 

He nods anyhow, watching as Michael wanders down to the fortifications. It’s as good a time as any to observe those horses. 

. . .

Pelzel, the groom, has a very interesting story to tell. Henry has to ring it out of him a little, bringing up Pa’s proverb about horse traders, but it works. Supposedly, the whole herd was taken from bandits. Bandits who were camped next to Rocktower fucking Pond. And isn’t that an interesting detail. 

Henry’s about to march down to talk to Michael when a villager catches his eye. The man asks for help collecting deadwood, a knowing look on his face. They walk in silence until properly shaded, trees blocking the path. 

“You have to believe me sir, that’s not lord Jaromier.” Oh Henry does. Henry does quite a bit. The villager runs off just before they’re caught, Henry waylaying the guard with a dopey smile and ignorant cock of his head. 

“Just be careful out here. God forbid you have an unfortunate accident. ” Something tells him quite a few unfortunate accidents have happened around in recent days. 

“Of course not! Have a good shift, sir guard!” 

Hanging about Capon has had an effect, it seems. Henry was never this good at buttering folk up before. 

Deciding that he ought to have his wounds tended before he bleeds out—or gets in a fight for going somewhere he shouldn’t—Henry heads off to Klara. She’s not especially hard to find, apparently the only woman around. He sends up a silent prayer for the poor lass, suddenly understanding why Michael felt the need to be protective.

Klara is pretty, put together, and no-nonsense in a way that reminds him of Ma. (And Theresa, if he lets his mind wander.) Surrounded by groaning, dying men, and her reaction is to pull up her sleeves and get to work. She’s the good sort. Henry finds himself liking the woman barely five minutes into meeting her. 

She’s also hard to say no to, not that Henry has tried. Before he knows what’s happening, he’s dragged from the healer’s hut, stomach full of marigold, being asked about his “knightly adventures” (despite emphatically not being a knight. Seems she’s a kind girl, too). 

What first comes to mind is his time in the monastery, and how he may or may not still be a little bit of a priest. Klara, clearly in no mood for war stories, latches onto this with gusto. All throughout herb picking she asks what brought him there, what it was like, did he meet anyone interesting? 

And Henry, off his guard trying to find some more fucking poppy, answers her honestly:

”Brother Lucas was certainly an odd fellow. Not a bad one, not that I could tell . . . But he was running from demons. Trying to find refuge in a place where they were supposed to never find him again. And yet there I appeared, throwing it back in his face.” Henry winces, realizing he’s said too much. The last thing Klara wants to hear are more depressing stories—

“What sort of demons, if you don’t mind me asking?” Her tone is casual, but measured. She doesn't look up from her herbs. 

“I-uh. Well, that is,” He coughs into his glove, “Erm.”

Klara laughs like a bell, smirking at him from the sage patch. “Well, if I had to guess the sort of demon that would make a man stutter like a boy before his first fuck—“ Henry coughs on his own spit, “I suppose I would guess one of sodomy.” 

Klara might have a bit of a demon herself, but she still stands to slap him on the back while he's choking to death. Miraculously, the conversation does not kill Henry. But it feels a near thing. 

“Well, what did you do about it?” Henry peers at her between his fingers, trying to hide from any more humiliation. 

“Do about . . . What?” Is she implying . . .?

”Brother Lucas. You made it sound like he was still alive, so I doubt you turned him in. What did you do?” This feels like a test all of a sudden. Klara is bearing a striking resemblance to Michael not a hour ago—fishing for information but trying to hide it in conversation. 

“I. Did. Well. Nothing?” Clara gestures for him to continue, eyebrow raised. 

“Nothing, really. I told him his secret had gotten out a bit, I was new at the time and even I knew. Might present him something of a problem. I guess I . . . Wanted him to know. So he could leave, or choose to stay, and it’d be his decision. I didn’t want him to die, not for something he regretted from long ago. Was seeking repentance for. No Christian should. And—“ Henry cuts himself off there. Not sure how he’d even finish that sentence. By saying that he doesn’t think sodomy a true sin? Not the way stealing or murder or lying? That the thought doesn't twist his guts, doesn't summon Ma or Pa or even Radzig like the others do? That nothing is mentioned in the commandments, and as far as he can tell no one is truly harmed? For isn't that the real offense behind every sin? 

That sort of admittance, something he doesn’t even know if he believes, would have him dead sooner than walking into the fortifications. 

Henry remains silent, even as Klara looks at him expectantly. Sensing this is not a subject he will move on, she shrugs, getting up. The pair finish herb collecting in silence. Henry feels guilty for ruining the mood, but better that than . . . Something. Something he doesn’t know but his instincts feel would not end well. 

Just before she walks back, Klara looks behind her, something like pity in her face. Or sympathy. 

“As God would have it, I know a man like,” she pauses, putting a strange emphasis on her words, “Your brother Lucas. A few, really, but the one I mean is one of the best men I know. What he does alone is his own business, not for others to judge. I’d like for him to know that.”

And then she walks away, bag full of herbs. Henry stares after her, scrambling to understand the layers of subtext that have passed him by. He’d ask Capon later . . . But this feels. Personal. Too personal. 

Henry finds himself spending the next while, staring off into the field, trying to right his head. Things only seem to get more wrong the longer he stares at the ground, however. Eventually, he gives up. 

Back to work. 

From then on Henry pretends to stumble his way around the outpost, “accidentally” bumbling his way into multiple pieces of evidence—Like talking shop with the blacksmith (“Oh, and what’s your brother up to?” “Nothing of import . . . “), recognizing one of the brigands who were bothering Bozhena (“I saw you before. At the lake!” “No you didn’t! Unrelated, let’s go hunting boys . . .”), and bothering Michael about conflicting stories (“All just boring noble stuff, I swear,” “Of course, I’ll never believe a word out of Pelzel’s mouth.”) 

These people, whoever they might be, are absolutely terrible liars. No wonder half of them are packed away from sight. The fucking groom stumbled when calling their leader Jaromier. 

If these weren’t likely to be the people who killed their camp at the lake, Henry would feel sorry for them. But they are, so he’s not, and— FUCK. CAPON.

But just as Henry’s about to do something brave (stupid) the lucky bastard appears. He’s none the worse for wear, albeit a bit drunk. Apparently part of keeping nobles from nosing around is to get them tipsy. 

Well, no. That makes perfect sense. Christ, it's what Henry would do. It’s what he has done, and on Radzig’s behalf! Perhaps there is a bit of noble guile to this puzzling man.

Henry finds himself rudely impressed, and vaguely grateful that this hasn’t turned into a rescue mission. He can tell Hans the details on the way back. Just . . . Not here. In the heart of it. When anyone could eavesdrop and then they would be truly fucked. 

Henry settles atop Pebbles, eerily silent as Capon wishes the men a cheerful goodbye. Dread fills his guts full as the marigold an hour ago. 

Something bad is about to happen, and he’s going to have a hand in it. Whether he wants to or not. 

Chapter Text

Riding back to Trosky Castle is a rather somber affair, a good half of it spent trying to plan for their arrival--Presenting Henry’s evidence will be critical, but being convincing will be more so. This whole bandit business is a bit unbelievable. Christ, Henry barely believes it himself. 

He winces as Hans encourages a gallop back to the castle. Riding hard jostles his shoulder, the grip in his right hand weakening. A painful numb has been biting its way down his arm for the last hour. The extra movement only makes things worse, but Hans is right--they need to make the report. Need to get on von Bergow’s good side. 

Need to ensure no one feels safe to touch Capon’s neck ever again.

Henry spurs Pebbles on, overtaking Aethon. They race, speeding 'round forested corners and trying to not run headlong into the trees. The last fifteen minutes are hell, but Hans is smiling again—blinding against the midday light. He’s had worse for less reward. 

Hans asks if he wants a break before they walk up the tower, but it’s perfunctory. There’s no time for such things. Henry just shakes his head, taking the lead up the stairs. Ulrich meets them at the top with an imperious sniff. Henry restrains himself from doing something stupid as his lord’s mood visibly drops. 

“Von Bergow has been waiting. He will be happy that you’ve returned with news.”

Teeth grit, gauntlet creaking, Henry smiles like a good dog and hustles them through. Maybe his shoulder makes contact with Ulrich’s on the way past. Maybe it doesn’t. He’s unsteady, after such a long day of riding. Off balance. 

The Chamberlain’s expression is pure poison. Henry, for his part, looks as innocent as a lamb. He gestures for Hans to enter first, acting as naught but a gentleman, truly. 

Von Bergow gives a short greeting before getting down to brass tacks—did they successfully gather any men? Hans winces, giving an affirmative and the specifics as promised by “Jaromier.” Only then does he reveals their suspicions.

Von Bergow is dubious, until Henry butts in. He points to the conflicting horse stories and spotting the bastard from the pond. A grim expression takes the lord. He turns to the window, thinking, before readdressing them: 

“They have us at a disadvantage. For now, they know more of us than we do of them. Still, we managed to capture one of their men during the attack. He’s been rotting in my cellar since. My men have tried to get information from him, but they find torture . . . distasteful. Silly superstition, believing it to be ‘dirty work for the executioner.’ It’s becoming quite the thorn in my side.”

Von Bergow trails off meaningfully, letting Hans take a turn to speak, “I—we—would be more than happy to help. Anything we can pry from the bastard will surely be useful for us both.” Henry cringes, but says nothing. His shoulder twinges. Best not to undermine Hans while he’s working. They can have a talk about fucking torturing some bloke afterwards.

Without his interference the two come to a quick agreement. But before they can leave, von Bergow asks if either of them had seen anything suspicious on his land. Hans was busy poaching and then nearly being hung, so no. Henry, on the other hand:

“Young Semine left his own wedding. I found his bride crying in the win cellar about it not long after.” It’s hard to keep the bitterness out of his voice, thinking of the woman weeping away while that moron went off to God knows where. And then Henry has the pleasure of nearly being beaten to death for trying to comfort her. No good deed, Pa used to say . . . 

Hans snaps his fingers, eyes brightening with recognition, “That was the day you were attacked, wasn’t it, Sir?”

“Aye. That it was.” Thunder hangs in the air as von Bergow considers this new information. They’re sent away soon after.

Only because Capon leaves first does Henry notice the sweat on the back of his neck. 

Hans sits on the bench just outside the door. Henry continues to stand, rubbing his shoulder absentmindedly. They live in the silence for a few minutes, collecting their thoughts. 

“We can’t do it.” Henry breaks first. 

Capon responds in a harsh whisper, “Au Contraire, we have to do it. Vow Bergow gave us an olive branch, we can’t just slap it away! Besides, if we can get this done he’ll owe us. Well get what we came for all the faster and then we can finally go home. Jesus Henry, don’t you miss Rattay? I know I fucking do. If this ends up being the last hurdle between us and safety then . . .” Hans turns away, voice breaking, hand to mouth. Henry politely pretends to look at his boots, ignoring the water gathering in the man’s eyes. 

Still, he answers plainly, “It would be unchristian. If getting home early means we’re to blacken our souls, means I’m to stand by and watch you become a worse man? Then we’ll find another way. We’ve managed it before. Christ, we haven’t even talked to the bastard yet. Let’s not despair until our options are truly gone, aye?” 

Hans gives a watery exhale, stubbornly staring at the top of the stairs. He waits a beat, thinking, getting himself under control. Eventually, he turns to look Henry in the eye, expression pinched and complexion ruddy. Short inhale, shoulders set. He nods, standing. 

“Fine, Henry. We’ll try it your way. God’s blood, I never thought I’d have to do something like this. Nobles have people for this shite . . .” 

“And today that’s us.” Normally, it would just be Henry. Alone with his conscience and two fists beaten bloody. One day, it might be Henry on Hans’ orders. 

Capon winces, realizing the implications himself. He is none too cheered. The walk down to the cellar is promptly filled with nervous ramblings and whinging complaints. Henry hums along as needed, mind on other matters. Like getting them out of this fucking mess. 

Once at the bottom Hans very nobly elects Henry to go first. If he wasn’t so fucking scared himself Henry would make fun of him for it. Opening the door leaves neither of them in the mood for jests. 

Or, trying to open the door. Lightning streaks down Henry’s arm when he goes to move, the suddenness of the pain preventing him from moving. He ignores Hans’ worried expression as he tries the damned door a second time, now with success. 

The prisoner hangs before them, more dirty than anything. He sports some scrapes and bruises, but little else of interest. Hate still lives in his eyes. Henry supposes he can’t blame the man, though he has little pity for him. His sympathy for bandits dried up months ago, doubly so for the people who murdered their band at the lake.

Henry won’t torture this man, won’t lower himself to it. Won’t lower Capon to it. But if he can make the bastard fear . . . Well, that will have to do. Short of giving the man a sword and taking his revenge on an injured, starving captive. 

Only honorable thoughts entering his mind as of late, Ma chides. 

Best to get this over with, then. 

“My name’s Henry—“

”I don’t care, you fucking traitor!”

”—And I’d rather this not end in bloodshed. But I’m no fucking traitor, and I’d advise you answer our questions unless you want to see where names will get you.” Pointedly, he eyes the tongues sitting on the left. The prisoner doesn’t get the hint, spitting at their feet. 

“Anyone who works with von Bergow is a traitor!” 

Hans sideyes Henry, looking understandably skeptical. And grim. He winces as the squire steps forward, not looking particularly surprised. Henry, for his part, tries not to take offense. 

“I’d ask where your band is hiding, but we already know.” The prisoner narrows his eyes, about to call him a liar—

“Nebakov.” The word is growled low enough to shake the ground beneath them. It certainly puts the captive off balance, suddenly shifting in his chains. Sweat appears on his forehead. He swallows, looking askance to gather himself, trying to turn the fear into rage. 

“You’re fucking guessing you son of a—“

”—Who’s your leader?” Henry is steadily losing patience with this conversation. 

“I—I . . . Fuck you, I. Fuck. I’m not telling you shite!” Henry considers asking the man to choose a finger, but the idea brings up such a vivid picture of Istvan that he immediately discards it. 

“I’d answer, if I were you. My squire here, while mild-mannered, is well-versed in the art of pain. And the son of a blacksmith, at that! My, I wonder what he could do with those tongues and your bones if I asked.” Just as Henry is about to flounder, Hans swoops in to back him up. An admirable man indeed. 

He clacks the tongues menacingly, trying to ignore the sudden ridiculousness of the situation. 

The prisoner takes one look at Henry—wide shoulders made wider by layers of hard-earned muscle and plate, face gone stony, voice rumbling like a landslide—and immediately starts talking. 

“JAN. Jan’s the only name we were told. Call off your fucking hound. Jesus . . .” 

The Hound takes another step forward instead. “Was a man named Istvan with you? I know I saw him by the lake. Don’t lie, unless you want to experience first hand what I learned in Prague.” 

“YES, alright? Christ. Yes. The bastard never did anything but he was there.”

”Did he have a sword with him? A special one, custom made.”

”I don’t— fuck. He had a sword. I never got enough of a look to see if the damned thing was ruby encrusted. Did your fucking noble lose his?” Henry does not answer, just turns the tongues over in his hand. Lets silence take over. Looks over at Capon, whose face is determined. Confident in what they’ve managed to gather so far. 

The next two questions aren’t hard to pull from the captive. The man’s already fucked, having given over the name of his leader. His best bet is to just answer, hoping that they’ll keep their word to try and sway von Bergow. 

This still leaves them with one problem, however— Olda Semine was involved in the attack. And thanks to Henry’s fat mouth, von Bergow already has an inkling of this. Will probably send someone out, whether they tell or not. Old Semine and the others have nothing to do with this madness, however. Don’t deserve to have their homes burned and crops torched. 

Hans is reluctant to tell. Henry suspects they don’t have a choice. 

“Surely von Bergow is no monster. He’s done right by us so far, and we’re but strangers. Surely for Old Semine he’ll mete out justice fairly.” 

Hans bites his lip, answering with a nod. 

Someone new has arrived when they reenter von Bergow’s chambers—a man named Hesheck. They both wait patiently for the news, unsurprised when Henry admits that they have confirmation of Olda’s involvement. Neither are interested in tale of Istvan. 

Hans completes the picture—bandits held up in Nebakov, lead by a man named Jan—and von Bergow nods. Invites them to go with Hashek and having a talk with Old Semine. See if they can bring back his son, while they’re at it.

Hans nods, acquiescing. Henry bows. They leave with Hashek as the sun begins to set.

Henry’s hand hurts all the more.

Chapter Text

The ride to Semine is understandably tense. Old Hashek, already steaming with vengeance, doesn’t trust them. (Ulrich has probably been spreading rumors in their absence, the bastard.) His back is unnaturally straight as he rides ahead, barely replying to Hans' attempts at small talk. He’s more than willing to recount the whole sordid tale when Henry asks, though. 

"It was more of a massacre." Taken completely off guard by an ambush, their company was left on the back foot. The only reason von Bergow’s party wasn’t entirely slain being a matter of luck and enemy incompetence--The bandits jumped too early, you see. They accidentally gave Bergow's men a fighting chance. 

Hashek spits when he’s done, returning to his incredibly important glaring. Semine comes into view just on the horizon. 

Henry and Hans share a look–Henry knows when a man’s about to do something stupid; Hans can smell a diplomatic incident. 

Miraculously, the mood drops even lower. 

. . . 

Old Semine isn’t surprised when they arrive. He’s scared–-openly sweating, fidgeting with his rings, looking askance to the tower beside him–-but he is not surprised. 

Perhaps someone warned him ahead of time. Perhaps he could see the writing on the wall. Perhaps Olda himself confessed. What really matters now is that Hashek is out for blood--Olda’s preferably, but he clearly does not care for the details. Hans attempts to steer things, asking if Old Semine had anything to do with the attack at the lake. Henry tries to pivot, advising him to bring Olda before them for questioning. Hashek, determined to stomp out their efforts, promises that the boy won’t live past the gates. (Even as Old Semine begs for his son’s life.)

Hans freezes with indecision. Visions of another hanging play in his mind, this time commanded by von Bergow himself. Their shadows jangle in the firelight, horrified faces reflecting off the walls . . . 

Henry, meanwhile, does as always:

“I will not stand by and watch you murder these people, Haashek. Stand down.”   

“So these traitors are your true allegiance? Fine. You’ll all burn the same–”  

He chooses the correct path, consequences be damned. 

The proceeding fight is not brutal for its length, but rather its lack thereof. Henry dispatches Heshek, a man already mid-swing, in two strikes–-One to block, another to behead. The resulting spray douses Henry from coif to greaves. He blinks twice, rubs his face on his (already red) waffenrock, and readies for the next man. 

Hans has unsheathed his sword by the time Hashek’s head has rolled past his shoes. 

The rest of von Bergow’s guards are outnumbered and outclassed. Hans manages a few kills but gets no pleasure from them. Devoid of honor or sport, it’s a thoroughly bitter affair. Though, perhaps some of his distaste stems from watching Henry drop into the space he occupies when too many men must die. 

Watching him stab the final guard in the back, seeing the man’s eyes roll in surprise and terror, Hans is reminded of one of their first major battles:

He’s been pushed to the ground, sword lost to the chaotic storm of boots and bodies. The soldier above him raises his mace, face impassive. Stony as Hans’ grave marker. Then, just before the man can finish him off, a blade pierces his neck. The soldier gurgles, blood pouring from the wound. His eyes are blown wide in shock, a low moan escaping his throat when the blade is removed. He’s pushed to the ground, choking and creaking and spluttering. Hans moves his hand before his glove can become stained.  

He looks up, unsteady. His legs are too weak to stand and face his savior honorably.  

Henry looks down, just as dispassionate as the man he’s killed. Hans would be relieved, but the peasant is . . . Different. Gone is the shy demeanor. The affability. Any   shred of God-given mercy.  

. . . 

His gambeson was green before, wasn’t it?  

In the present day, Henry pulls out his sword and does not watch the man bleed to death in the ground.

. . . They are victorious. 

His squire looks dully onward, still pulling his soul out of whatever purgatory he stuffed it in. 

Hans is struck with the sudden, improprietious impulse to hold his hand.    

Henry blinks awake a second later. Back to himself again, he finally appears to be less adrift. The urge does not dissipate, but it does become bearable.  

With the carnage laid out before them, it is hard not to regret—Henry wishes things had happened differently. Hans wishes they hadn’t happened at all. Fuck the lot, let von Bergow have his blood. But no, St. Henry must save the maidens in distress when he can nary afford to save himself.  

Nonetheless, what’s done is done. After a short interrogation with Olda, they must decide how to salvage this mess. 

“Hashek was already going to burn the castle down . . .” Henry’s suggestion is grim, but with the majority of the residents alive, it’s their only option to cover . . . this. Von Bergow has bigger fish to fry with Olda’s precious bandits, anyways.

Even in the face of his home being burned to the ground, the boy cares only for them. His father, wife, and subjects be damned. World crumbling around him, a demise wrought by his own two hands, and the boy still threatens to kill his saviors. The insanity.  

Hans makes a poor attempt to hold back a sneer as Olda turns away. Henry elbows him anyway, offering a weak smile. It’s a gruesome thing, as his face is still smeared with blood, but Hans finds himself grinning back. It’s proof they’re alive, after all.

(For now.)

Hans ignores the shadow of a rope slowly closing around Henry’s neck. They have work to do. Things to pack and people to organize. A lie to get straight with more townsfolk than faces he can recall. 

. . .

The sun has long since set and is threatening to rise by the time Semine truly burns. Henry stares as flames lick into the sky, almost mesmerized. Sadly, Hans knows better—He watches memories cross the man’s eyes, continuing to haunt his expression even as they go. 

Riding out a few minutes later, Hans cannot help but to break the silence with his own worries:

“Are you sure we did the right thing?”

“It was the only thing we could do, short of letting Hashek burn the place to the ground.”

The blaze crackles behind them. Henry spurs Pebbles faster.

“Fat lot of good that did us.   Semine burns all the same, from where I’m sitting. But now our necks are in the noose if word gets out afterwards.” Hans can feel sweat gathering at his nape, all-too-familiar. He blames it on the heat.

“What’s different is that we didn’t just participate in the murder of innocent people. That's worth more than our necks, Hans.”

Rage bubbles in his guts then, indignant and terrified. The shadows of their swinging ghosts dance in the firelight before him. And somehow Henry can’t see them. Or worse yet, doesn’t fucking care.  

“Speak for yourself, Henry.   It wasn’t your neck that was in the fucking noose two days ago, was it? You only had to watch the madman dance cross the stage, spewing his sermon, practically laughing while he—“ Hans stops before the tears can truly take over.

He feels guilty almost immediately. Who is he to pretend to be the only one suffering?

Henry, to his credit, says nothing. 

But the analytical stare is killing him all the same. Hans might actually prefer being told to fuck off. To watch Henry gallop away in a huff. It would be a proper punishment for blaming him again. For retreading the same mistake that got them into this mess to begin with . . .  

Henry looks on, brow pinched in worry. His shoulders slump, weighed down by Hans’ own guilt. No sharpened jab or well-worthy insult is forthcoming, however. And Christ knows there’s plenty Henry could say, could throw in his face for being a stupid, spoiled, ungrateful noble brat.

The clock runs out on any response he could give. Henry does as before in the pillory—he remains silent. 

But he doesn’t leave. And neither does Hans. For the intermediary of this ride they are determined to stay together. 

Hans takes a shaking breath. In for a groschen in for a gander. If Henry will remain then he has one more stupid, selfish thing to say—

“I’m just sick of you acting as if your life isn’t worth more—more than those fucking traitors back there. More than any vagrant on the side of the road. Christ, Henry, I’d wager you’re worth more than half the fucking nobles I’ve met. And what do you do with yourself? Sacrifice, sacrifice, fucking sacrifice. Jesus. Would it be such a sin to do something for yourself once in a while? To say fuck everyone else and just ride off wherever you want—“

“Hans.”

“What the hell is even keeping you in Rattay, anyhow? Surely it isn’t your promise to Radzig. He’d release you in a minute, if you asked. God. Don’t tell me you’re still too—“

“Hans.”  

“What?”

“Are we still talking about Semine?” 

“. . .”

Hans stares at the blackened horizon. He doesn’t know the answer to that question. He doesn’t know the answer to anything, really. 

As if this night couldn’t be any more humiliating, his breath begins to hitch. Try as he might to hide them, Hans can feel the tears pooling in his eyes. He tries to stare at the ground, head turned as far away from Henry as it will go. Something catches in his chest. Hans squeezes the reins so hard his gloves pop a stitch. 

He very, very deliberately does not look to his right. Doesn’t want to see the pity, the worry, the God damned understanding cross Henry’s face. He doesn’t want it. Doesn’t deserve it. Not after the pillory, and certainly not after tonight. 

Hans’ ears still work just fine, though. And with them he can hear Pebbles drawing closer. Aethon snorts his discomfort as the mare almost brushes against him. Hans is too busy marinating in shame to care. 

It catches him by surprise, then, when Henry begins to talk. When he spends the rest of the ride fucking pontificating. Darling, sweet, quiet Henry regales Hans with everything he wants to do when they get home. His plans in five years “You know what you said about going out and seeing the world?”), then ten (“I think I’d make for a fine captain of the guard! Once a girl finally forces you to settle.”), then twenty (“Martin was a good father. I think I’d like to give it a try myself.), and even fifty (“When I’m withered and grey . . . I think I’d like to open a potion shop. Maybe spend my Saturdays teaching wayward adventurers how to read.”) 

Yet, the greater surprise is that for every decade Henry speculates, Hans is included too—

“It wouldn’t feel right to see Prague alone, of course.”

“And whose other guard would I captain?” 

“I suspect any child of yours will need all the parents they can get.” 

And, perhaps most damning of all, “Don’t think I’ll be letting your pompous arse off the hook just because it has a few wrinkles. I’ll need someone to complain to about how much my back hurts.”

For the next half an hour Henry of Skalitz weaves a tapestry of dreams gilded by promises of tomorrow. It’s one of the most beautiful things Hans has ever witnessed. More earnestly precious than anything he’d dare imagine. Hans would fear to taint it, truth be told. But looking at Henry, glowing in the morning light, it’s clear he could never taint anything. (The world itself fears that it will taint Henry.)

They separate before they reach Trosky, giggling like children even as smoke clogs the air. Heavy with responsibility, they quiet upon reaching the gates. It is a slow, dreading plod to the Maiden’s Tower. 

Hans prays it won’t be their last. 

It will be his job to explain.  

. . . 

The talk with von Bergow is fraught, another source of stress that will inevitably worm its way into their nightmares. But it doesn’t end in blood. Von Bergow is even angry on Semine’s behalf. He didn’t want any of this either.

Henry and Hans plead luck as the cause of their grand escape. The only ones to eke out a way through the fire. All else are dead—Olda, Gnarly, Hasheck, the lot of them. 

It’s not hard, pretending to be spooked. Guilt-ridden for surviving. Von Bergow looks at their faces and knows their story is true, at least to some extent. Curiosity satisfied, he waves them off. A feast shall be had a few days from now, so they had better rest and prepare. 

There is a note of finality to von Bergow’s dismissal. Hans hopes they’ll finally be going home, treaty signed and victorious despite the shite they waded through to get here. Henry’s doubtful expression says otherwise, as does the nervous tick he’s suddenly developed.

Henry sighs, rubbing his shoulder, “Something tells me that whatever happens, during or after the festivities, is going to be permanent. No more second chances.”

Attempting to inject some cheer into things, Hans claps him on the back, “My dear Henry you worry too much! Just think, one more night of wining and dining and then we’re home free! Back to Rattay and long away from this cursed fucking backwater. Now stop giving yourself wrinkles and try to focus on the positives, aye?” 

“ . . . Aye, sir Hans.” Henry sounds less than enthused, but Hans has three-some days to change that. Then he’ll have plenty of time for gloating once they’re back on the road. Henry will pretend to be the bigger man for all of an hour, secretly plotting his Lord’s downfall. He’ll enact it, and Hans will retaliate, and the repercussions will leave them doing something so horrendously stupid they’ll be caught up in another adventure. 

Just . . . This one will end in Henry not looking so haunted . . . As well as riches and wenches and Hanush begrudgingly admitting that he’s not a failure. 

What could possibly go wrong with a plan this perfect?

Chapter Text

Henry collapses into bed immediately after talking with von Bergow. He manages a short conversation with Capon first, of course. But he contributes more meaningful looks than true input, staggering off soon after. They can have a proper conversation later. Now is the time for sleep. 

A scant few paces away from paradise, Henry remembers to take off his armor.  He almost says sod it anyhow, dead man’s blood be damned. Everything hurts and he hasn’t slept for a literal day. Propriety is for nobles and the unexhausted. 

But the image of Hans coming to check on him, peeking in, then being met with the sight of his squire passed out in a puddle? Fully armored, like a lunatic or a dead man? The thought of him fearing, even for a second, that Henry held back something vital? That manages to motivate him. Just enough. 

Plate CLANGs to the floor, followed by the clattering of chain, and muffled sounds of padded cloth. Down to his braies, Henry finally, mercifully , flops into bed.

He’s out before his head hits the pillow.  Pure fucking exhaustion makes it a dreamless sleep.

. . .

Awakening God knows when, Henry stares at the ceiling. Contemplates rolling over, hugging Mutt, and dozing until hunger drives him from bed. And he’s about to, preparation for the feast be damned, when there’s a knock(?) at the entrance. 

It’s more of a bang, really, coming from the bottom of the door. Almost like some fool has decided they’re going to go about kicking awake poor, weary peasants. His first instinct is to assume it’s Capon being passive-aggressive, or thinking he’s funny, but the idiot would have said something by now. 

Henry, in no mood to punch someone today, elects to ignore the noise. Or, tries to. Sadly, the arsehole only becomes more insistent. Ten minutes later and Henry rolls out of bed when he fears the idiot is going to break down the damned door. Christ, he doesn’t need von Bergow thinking it’s his fault. Or worse yet, the Goddamned Chamberlain. Ugh. That slimy bastard wouldn’t let him live it down for the rest of their accursed stay.

Though why this inconsiderate moron hasn’t just opened the door by now is its own ques–-Oh for fuck’s sake. 

Pebbles. 

Henry bangs his head against the wall. Why. Why is this his lot in life. Why him. 

Before he can get too wrapped up in dramatics, Pebbles (lightly) kicks him in the shin. Henry, wanting to keep his legs, reluctantly takes the hint. “Alright, alright. I suppose the groom thinks he’s too good to feed you, the louse. And don’t give me that look, I’ll be out in a second. But I’m not going to get your–” He pokes his head out enough to judge the angle of the sun, “Lunch half naked. If Hans ever heard he’d spend the next forty years writing a limerick and then insist on reading it at my funeral. God knows it'd take him that long to write something tolerable.”

Pebbles snorts, utterly unconcerned with the possibility of her owner being made fun of for the rest of his life. Mutt, suddenly awake and bounding around, baying like a loon at the idea of being fed, is similarly unsympathetic. Though where Pebbles tried to knock his door down, Mutt tries to herd Henry outside like a particularly tall sheep. 

Still without hose or a shirt on, of course. 

“Honestly, why are all of my favorite people so selfish. Is it something about me? Do I bring out the arsehole in folks? What about you, silly boy? Have I made you worse as well?” Henry chuckles despite himself, ruffling Mutt’s head with both hands. He is rewarded with a cold wet nose pressed directly into an unprotected sliver of stomach. “HEY! Watch it you great big idiot. Keep those bits to yourself unless you want your beloved master to catch his death!” 

Mutt is completely unrepentant, but he comes to heel when Henry commands. Plopping his arse in the middle of the floor for maximum inconvenience, the big baby insists on whining while Henry attempts to find clothes. Preferably ones not covered in sweat, blood, or both. 

He mostly finds both. What a day this is turning out to be. 

Henry eventually gives up, deciding that being overdressed is better than not being dressed at all. On go the hose and shirt he wore to the wedding. The cutpurse’s shoes are a last-minute addition, grabbed when he remembers the high chance of stepping in horseshite. Pebbles narrows her eyes as he leaves and Henry basks in the rare victory.

Both the spoiled idiots are eating soon after, Pebbles nose-deep in a feed bag and Mutt utterly destroying a sausage the length of Henry’s arm. He chuckles from a few paces away, munching on the last of the roast piglet he stole. Lunch is finished with a handful of kolaches and a skein of nearly-soured wine. (Better now than poured out for the hogs. Probably.)  

Henry is busy making fun of Mutt for tearing his meal asunder when someone chuckles alongside him.

Low and deep, as if amused from afar.  Definitely not Hans. 

He turns, surprised to see Black Bartosch of all people. Bartosch, for his part, grins a hello. He inclines his head toward the bench Henry’s sitting on. There’s room for another, if he’s willing to share.

“Would the good Sir Henry mind some company?” There is no hint of noble derision in the jest. There might even be a bit of respect, considering their initial meeting. Henry, smiling already, does so a bit wider.

“Aye, it’s a good day to have company, Sir Bartosch.” The man snorts, somehow still dignified, and carefully sits down. There is a respectable hand of distance between them. Henry side eyes the purposeful cant of the man’s shoulders as he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. The knight observes as Mutt attempts to bully Pebbles into playing. Unfortunately for Mutt, Pebbles is three times his size and twice as stubborn. She slaps him in the face with her tail as he runs by, barely looking up from the trough. 

Unfortunately for Pebbles, Mutt is too excited to take offense. He dunks his head in the water to see what all the fuss is about, then goes back to running around and barking. When even that starts to bore him the madman weaves between her legs, somehow not getting kicked in the process. 

Henry’s gotten so wrapped up in their antics that he startles when Bartosch starts to talk, “I saw you and your Lord Capon return this morning. You two caused quite the stir.”

“Oh? Aye. I suppose so. A shame we couldn’t bring back happier news.”  

“Indeed.” For all that his fringe covers it, Henry can still feel Bartosch’s stare. Knows he’s being evaluated somehow. Not judged, exactly. Just sized-up. 

Instinctively, he straightens his back. Tilts his jaw, just a little. Enough to imply that he knows what’s happening. At least in part. 

“You seem close, Henry. You and your Lord.” There’s a testing lilt to the knight’s voice. 

“Aye. I should hope so, considering all the shite we’ve been through together.”

“. . . Known each other for a while, have you?” Does he sound . . . disappointed?

“Eh, if half a year is a while, then aye. But considering all the shite that’s been packed into the time? It feels like I’ve known the man threefold longer.” Memories of their stupidity raise to the surface and Henry cracks a smile. “I don’t know if he realizes, but the stubborn bastard has carried me out of hell. More than once.”

“You truly admire him, don’t you?”

“Aye. You’d hear if I didn’t. When we first met I was more likely to punch him in the mouth than sing his praises . . . But he’s changed. We both have.” Henry worries he’s become a worse man, more days than not. Hans, though? Hans is a better man than he was before. Objectively. “I’m proud of what he’s become. What he’s becoming.”  

“It seems you have quite the . . . doting relationship, then. You take care of each other. Strive to improve.” 

“Aye. As it should be for any friendship. I’ve had my share of fair weather friends and convenient acquaintances. Nothing compares to sharing a goal with someone. Your trials in life.” 

“May we all be so lucky to find someone with whom we can share our trials.” There’s a wry tug to the corner of Bartosch’s mouth. A secret joke dancing at his lips. “Tell me, Henry, what’s this shared goal of yours?”

That gives him pause. Not because the question is surprising, but because his answer feels important. “. . . I suppose we both wish to become men we can be proud of.”

Bartosch nods. Then, a beat of silence. “Would you say you’re just friends, then? Albeit ones with similar aims?”

“What else would we be?” Henry’s brow furrows, confused where that came from. Bartosch’s eyes sparkle in response. Mirth lights his face, and maybe a twinge of pity. He seems happy with his answer, nonetheless, changing the subject soon after. They exchange small talk for a while longer before Bartosch begs other responsibilities. 

Henry waves goodbye, left with the distinct feeling of having given away more than he intended. 

. . . 

Some hours of faffing about later, Henry leaves Mutt to get into trouble on his own for a while. The sun has set and the potion bench calls. The castle doctor is dead and buried and von Bergow is too busy to find another one. As the man would surely have bemoaned his ingredients going waste, Henry feels no guilt in spending the rest of the night putting them to use. 

And work for the rest of the night he does. A fair few of his older concoctions are poured down the privy in favor of newer ones of higher quality. It’s more room for more shite and he’s . . . relatively assured that the resulting potion/shite mixture won’t result in anything disastrous. 

And if it does. Well. He’s made sure to dispose of everything at the privy Osina is most likely to use. So nothing of value will be lost. 

Henry toils away from sun down to sun up, restoring his own personal stocks and keeping more than enough to sell for later. Groschen may be easier to carry, but they won’t heal his wounds. Or keep him from sleepwalking halfway to Troskowitz.  

Of course, that’s eight-some hours he’s been standing up, exposing himself to fumes, handling ingredients, and absentmindedly biting his nails. By the end of things he’s more than a little light-headed. Still plenty awake, arguably more so than when he started, but beginning to list to the side all the same. 

Henry rustles around in his bag, swearing when he realizes he forgot to label anything. A couple brushstrokes and he’d be able to tell the difference between Cockerel and Bane without having to smell them. Uuuuugh.

Well, better now than later. Henry takes a bottle at random and gives it a whiff. Dollmaker. He paints a snake on the container and moves on. This continues for a while, until he stumbles upon something he’s fairly certain is Buck’s Blood. Fuck it, he’s getting woozier by the minute. He needs something to stay sharp until this thankless task is done.

Down the hatch.

. . .

Katherine has dropped by twice tonight, for reasons known only to her. She laughed the first time she saw Henry distilling away and nagged him to take a break the second. Now, at dawn, as the world tips sideways, is the third. He gives a jaunty wave, giggling. Katherine takes one look at him, rolls her eyes, and mutters about an “idiot being someone else’s problem.” 

“You. Stay sitting. Stay. I’ve got an owner to fetch.” She stomps away, leaving Henry in a cloud of confusion. Owner? Is she talking about Mutt? But he’s Mutt’s owner. Unless she meant Pebbles . . . But can Pebbles even make it up the stairs? Why would he need to stay for that anyways? 

He spends too long puzzling over Katherine’s command to do anything truly stupid before she returns, Hans in tow. “There. Now you deal with him. And I was never here.” Off she goes again, an awkward Capon left in her wake. Henry goes to wave hello, but the colors of dawn shifting against the back of his hand catch his attention instead. Gold, and pink, and orange. Blood red at the edges. It reminds Henry of someone–

“Oh for Christ’s sake Henry. If I didn’t know any better I’d think you spent the whole night drinking alone. Here, get up you big lug, back to the barracks we go–” Hans leans down to hoist Henry up, just close enough that he can smell the perfume at the nape of his lord’s neck. 

Mintha, his own make. Dandelion, marigold, and mint. Given just after the wedding, while they were still drunk and laughing, warm with friendship. Unaware of the noose swinging down the road. 

The walk back to the barracks is simultaneously forever and not long enough. Swirling colors and drifting patterns aside, Henry enjoys being half-slung across Hans. Especially when he’s not 3/4ths dead. Head lolling on his neck, Henry abandons any concept of dignity to rest his upper body on Capon’s shoulder. Dandelions bloom in his nose and marigolds trail across their path. 

Hans, for his part, turns beet red and never once stops talking. “Honestly, Henry. When this is what you get up to on your own I’m surprised you survived for so long without me. Clearly you need a noble influence in your life, lest the potioncraft take you. Do you know what doesn’t involve sampling strange wares and passing out on cold stone floors? Going hunting with your good friend Sir Hans Capon. Which we should do once you’re done being . . . this. Whatever this is. God, what is so interesting about the back of my neck? Go look where you’re going, you useless lout. Do you want to send us tumbling into cowshite? You know what, don’t answer that. I’m sure ‘push each other into cowshite’ was a beloved game back in the village. Anyhow–”

The constant hum of noise is comforting, in an odd way. The familiar smell of Hans and winding paths of Trosky almost reminding him of Rattay. Luckily for Hans, it isn’t terribly far to the barracks once they’re outside. Minimal chance of falling into a steaming pile of shite. 

Pebbles, whose spots have taken on a rainbow hue and refuse to stay in place, snorts a laugh. Mutt howls a hello and it sounds like an angelic choir conducted by a general of hell. “Shhhhhhh doggy. We don’t want any of the deeeemons to wake up and eat us.” Henry laughs into Capon’s shoulder, cracking up further when the man grumbles about opening up a Hellgate underneath them. 

“I swear to God, Henry. If the Devil himself pops in front of us it’ll be all your fault. The lord you’ve sworn to protect, condemned to Hell by your own feckless ineptitude. You should be ashamed.” Hans opens the door, nudging it with his hip before shoving Henry inside. The squire giggles, oddly pleased at being pushed around. Hans is stronger than he looks. Stronger than he pretends to be. 

“Go. Shoo. Sit on the bed you horrible menace. I’ll take your shoes off. And maybe, if you’re lucky, stand watch to make sure no knights of Hell show up to kill us.” 

It’s dark inside the barracks, with no windows for light to filter through. Yet Hans’ hair glows gold, as if lit from within. Every strand a single candle, burning with all the good Capon can be. Is. Will be. 

There’s an expression on Henry’s face that he can’t quite sort out. Something soft, and maybe wanting. He’d school it, normally. Hide behind a wall of stone and pretend all he feels is friendship for the man he can never have. Should never try to get. But today. Today he’s too far gone to care. Too out of his own head to be anything but in love.

Hans, back turned and pulling up a box to use as a makeshift stool, doesn’t notice. 

By the time he turns back around, softly complaining about the lack of proper furniture for noble guests , Henry is asleep.

Chapter Text

Henry blinks himself awake some time later, unsure what time it is. Unsure, Jesus, what year it is. The barracks are empty (though smelling faintly of dandelion), with not so much as a hungry hound to break the stillness. 

He’s slept through whatever hangover he earned this morning, thank Christ. Though he's probably slept through any other responsibilities because of it. 

Bereft of anything else to do, Henry rolls out of bed. Hose, shirt, shoes, out the door—why the fuck is it nearly dark out? He scrubs a hand through his hair, squinting at the setting sun. Mutt or Pebbles should have kicked him awake long before now . . .

But no, they’re right where he left them, happy as can be. Neither seems to be dying of starvation, despite Henry being unconscious for at least ten hours. Bleary, it takes him longer than it should to come to a rather obvious conclusion—Hans.

Slumping down on the bench, Henry grins sleepily. Capon is a good man, a good lord, when he tries to be. Thoughtful, and not nearly half the noble arse he’d have you believe. 

Mutt gives a happy woof, running over to shove his drooling maw in Henry’s hands. He chuckles, absentmindedly petting the hound (with his left hand, the right still buzzing numbly) while trying to decide what to do today. Tonight? Urgh, he’s becoming worryingly nocturnal.

“Up all night, sleeping all day. What a noble son we’re raising.” 

Pa always made fun whenever Henry fell into these patterns, more Fritz and Matthew’s fault than his own. Martin’s complaints have more context now, after a hundred little jests have been pushed to the side. Jokes more said to Ma than Henry himself, laced with amusement but never disgust. 

Pa loved them both. And for as much as that killed him it’s one of the things keeping Henry alive now. 

He spends about an hour staring at the settling sun, watching as it dips behind the walls of the castle. The gold is heralded by great streaks of pink and red, painting the sky a riot of colors until night truly descends. Stars twinkle from on high, harkening back to a hundred old legends he’ll never know. 

Henry considers spending the rest of the night here, craning his neck heavenwards on a bench that makes his arse hurt, counting constellations. It’s been a long, long time since he’s had a chance to slow down. To do nothing but waste time admiring God’s celestial creations. 

“Don’t think I can’t see that look on your face, child. You think we’re just wasting our time, sitting out here. No names for the stars so no use in watching them, aye? Aside from those you can use to find your way in the dark?” Henry nods, embarrassed that he couldn’t better hide his disinterest. Ma puts up with enough of his shite.“That’s all your Pa talking. You’re a lot like him, Henry—you just can’t slow down. Always the next project, the next thing to improve, the next person to help. 

“What’s the point otherwise?”

“ Appreciating, son. Appreciating what you have, and who you have it with. Appreciating how far you’ve come and that you can rest long enough to look at the stars at all.” Henry makes a noncommittal sound, trying to keep the boredom off his face. Ma kisses his hair with a knowing chuckle. “You may not know the value of it now, while life is easy, but some day you will. You’ll stare at these same stars one night, years later, and realize that you’ve been holding your breath for an age. And when you finally let it go, my boy, you’ll learn to love the night sky the same as me.” 

Pebbles snorts, starling Henry from his thoughts. She gives him a look, flicking her tail. Mutt is running around her legs again, working out a day of unspent energy. 

. . .

Fuck it. 

Henry gets the old girl tacked up in less than fifteen minutes. Sword at his belt, he swings into the saddle, ready to head out. Reins in one hand, torch in the other. He trots out the front gate, tipping his chin to the guards. They grumble a sleepy hello, not thinking twice about the young man riding for nowhere after nightfall. 

Surprisingly, a peasant boy and his nag don’t warrant much attention.

Mutt bounds ahead, trying to race Pebbles to the horizon. She gives an unimpressed wicker as Henry jokingly rolls his eyes. Tonight isn’t for hard riding. Just memories, and trying to find Trosky's prettiest stretch of sky (maybe some day Hans would like to see it too). 

Ma always did love the stars. She loved their little cottage overseeing the village, too. High on the hill, all she had to do was go outside to have the whole of creation in front of her. She knew the names to a few constellations, ones Pa couldn’t recognize. Some stories about them as well. 

Years later, Henry realizes Radzig likely taught her. And then she taught him. What he’s learned is a piece of his new/old father, inexorably tied to a man he’s only recently come to know. Today, it’s unspecific mush he regrets not memorizing when he had a chance. 

But what he loves? That’s from Ma. A sparkling blanket that engulfs him every night. Reliable as the sun’s rise, the stars are one of the few things that will never truly leave him.

Henry grimaces, knuckles turning white at the reins with sudden realization:

He’ll always have the night to remember his mother by. But Pa? With the smithy destroyed, with Skalitz in ruins, all he has left is Radzig’s sword. Still stolen. Still out of reach while he aimlessly wanders waiting for something, anything to happen. Helpless to the grand machinations to nobles and the inscrutable plans of a God who will never answer back.

Of a God who lets Skalitz burn in the first place.

. . .

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe tonight is for hard riding. 

He spurs Pebbles into a canter then a gallop and then they are flying through fields and down forest paths. Wind whips in Henry’s face, pulling at his clothes but doing little to cool his rage. Godwin’s chiding comes to mind as Pebbles leaps over a creek:

“I know it’s cold comfort when you’ve lost everything, lad, but blaming God for our troubles won’t solve anything. Especially when it’s man himself who is most responsible. Sometimes pain is just pain, and there’s nothing to learn from it except the knowledge that you’ve survived.”

Cold comfort indeed, to be told that misery is just misery. Meaningless as folks' cruelest whims. But Henry prefers the honesty of it, much more than the inescapable chant of “It’s all in God’s plan.” Maybe God cares and can’t change anything, maybe He doesn’t and refuses to. Maybe neither of those things matter half as much as what Henry does when he finally finds Istvan. How he takes back the sword when there’s nowhere left for its thief to run. 

He gives a light tug on the reins, slowing Pebbles as they get to a crook in the road. He’s been taking random directions for minutes, escaping his thoughts to the tune of thundering hooves. Mutt pants happily behind them, glad for the exercise. 

They’ve gone nowhere fast, but Henry’s not worried about finding his way back. He’s wandered these forests for a month with less— fuck .

Moonlight obscured by the forest canopy makes it hard to see ahead. But Henry can still listen. He shushes Mutt and slows Pebbles to a crawl, leaning as far in the saddle as he can get, craning his neck to hear. 

“Sir! Sir! Do slow down a second. We need to talk quickly.”

“ . . . Wha-What? I-I need to get home—“

“Now, fine sir, this will only take a minute.” A short pause, then an abbreviated gasp of horror. Henry spurs Pebbles back into a trot. “Now, we can do this like gentlemen or . . . Or, well, my very large friend here will make you wish we did.” 

Walking down an incline, Henry finally sees past the blanket of leaves—A man in dirty traveling clothes stands at the mouth of a river. On the other side, blocking his path, are two almost-certainly-bandits. The mouth of the operation wears little more protection than chain mail and thick hose. In contrast, the muscle looks like a black knight straight from Hans' stories—Fully armored in dark plate, towering over his companion with mace in hand.  

Henry has a sword, a horse, a dog, and a saddlebag filled with various concoctions. 

“Aye, that’s right. Take everything out, we need to see the good shite. Ha! Provided there is any.” This is not Henry’s problem. In all likelihood the whole incident will resolve peacefully, if not especially happily, without his interference. 

“And you’d better hope something here is worth taking!” The men seem to be working things out just fine on their own. They’ve done this before, obviously, and most robbers don’t want to leave a trail of bodies behind.

“Because if there’s not I’m going to feed your bones to Heinrich.” . . . No one wants to be hung over a peasant. 

“Oh isn’t that a shame. Poor as you look, not carrying anything worth a damn. Well, you know what that means~” Besides, all this is doubly not Henry’s problem when he doesn’t have more than a thin layer of cloth between himself and— Oh God damnit who is he kidding. 

This is why he keeps so much shite in Pebbles’ pack. 

“Mother of God please don’t—!” Henry fishes out the few bits of armor he can don on horseback while sending Mutt out as a distraction. 

“SICK ‘EM!” He roars from up the path, Pebbles galloping forward while Mutt leaps through the underbrush. He bites into the noisiest bandit’s arm, teeth sinking into flesh just as the bastard raises it to strike. The peasant freezes in shock, only turning to run when Henry barrels past, sword aimed for the leader’s unprotected neck. The man ducks just in time to avoid a beheading, but Henry still earns first blood off his cheek. 

He yells, surprised, but manages to grab the man’s cloak hood with his good arm. Throwing Mutt off, he pulls the victim close, blade to neck. Eying the situation, Henry backs Pebbles off the path. This leaves the black knight(?) on his left and leader on his right. Mutt snaps off to the side, but otherwise stays put. Good boy. 

The knight’s expression is inscrutable behind the visor, but his stance changes from bored to focused. The leader grips his dagger tighter, smiling as the peasant simpers under him. “That’s right, hero. I’ve got your peasant right where I want him. And unless you want to be the one burying a body tonight, you’ll get off that fucking nag and give us all you—“

“Shut. Up.” A voice rumbles from the expanse of the armor. Its occupant doesn’t visibly move, but the sheer threat of his countenance shocks the other bandit into momentary silence.

“I—what. HEY! You answer to me, arsehole. What the fuck do you think you’re—“ 

Within one breath and the next the knight has closed the space between him and his employer(?), once again towering over the man but now with palpable killing intent.

The bandit shuts the fuck up.

Turning back, the knight returns to his original position. The look he gives Henry is appraising. A challenge and a question wrapped in one— “Test your mettle,” it says. “Prove what kind of man you are.” 

Henry swallows, nervous, examining his options: He could dismount, like a lunatic, and try to take the man out honorably (stupidly). Or he could stay on Pebbles and slightly decrease his chances of being killed in a single blow. Or he could ride after the peasant, try to pull him on Pebbles’ back before he gets his throat cut, and take off for Trosky castle. OR he could wash his hands of this business and try to not let his cowardice keep him up at night. 

The knight looks stoically on, unbothered by the pause.

Henry adjusts his helmet. 

This is a really, really stupid idea. 

He gives Pebbles a pat, climbing down. She shakes her mane disapprovingly. Mutt whines.

This is a really, really, really stupid idea. 

He rustles around in her pack, quickly fishing out two prizes—Aqua Vitalis and Saviour Schnapps. (Something for the incoming pain and a drink before he needlessly puts his life on the line, as is tradition.)

Bottoms up. He nods to his opponent, the helmet cocking in curiosity, before downing one after another with nary a chance to breathe. “Alright.” Henry wipes his mouth on his sleeve, moving to unsheathe his sword, “Come and get it.”

The knight attacks first, swings nearly too fast to parry. Henry dodges, sword cracking against the side of the armor. It dents, but doesn’t break. Well card for, even as the joints creak with age. Henry ducks away, hand stinging with the recoil. A man in plate will tire quicker than a man without, but all it will take is one graze to the ribs for this fight to be over.

So. Time for the long game. 

Henry takes a breath, trying to slow himself down. Lets his opponent become the aggressor. A bit like Bartosch, the man strikes fast. A bit like Capon, he overextends himself. Honorable for a bandit, but impatient. Used to winning and used to being the strongest. He doesn’t fight like someone with decades of experience. He fights like someone who’s never lost and has grown bored. 

Henry can work with that. 

Bernard this man is not. All it takes is patience and a few well-placed barbs, “All that metal slowing you down, arsehole?” for him to begin to crack. Swings go wild, openings reveal themselves, and suddenly Henry is landing more hits than he blocks. Standing in the water, boots soaking through with the chill, he watches for an opportunity. Tries to crowd the knight into a spot with softer ground, or loose debris, or—

CLANG!

—An extremely slippery rock. The man falls to his arse. Stunned with the suddenness of it, he lets go of the mace. 

Now disarmed, Henry points his sword at the man’s throat, “Do you yield?” He deserves the chance to live, if he so chooses.  

The helmet tips upwards, impassive, something glimmering in the man’s one revealed eye just before— FUCK.

Fire burns down Henry’s side and he turns to see the other bandit, backing up with a mad cackle. A knife is buried in the squire’s side, just under his ribs. It moves with every desperate intake of breath, white sleeping shirt quickly turning red where it’s pinned to his skin. 

The peasant is long gone, released in favor of revenge. “Wondering where your friend went? He ran like the fucking Devil when I let him go. No honor amongst the destitute, I suppo— hurk.” The man has little else but a warning growl from Mutt before his victory lap is interrupted. Hurling himself forward, the dog latches himself to the bastard’s neck, tearing it out with a great gout of blood. 

Some of the spray catches Henry in the face as the man goes down.

Jesus.

He won’t last long after that and Henry doesn’t stick around to see the end. He eyes the knight instead, trying to gauge if the man will also try to kill him the second he turns his back. The knight, sensing the obvious, shakes his head no. Henry calls Mutt over anyhow before limping back to Pebbles. She stomps nervously, smelling blood in the air. He pets her mane before holding his breath and mounting her back. 

The agony is immediate but fleeting. It’s the lightheadedness after that’s the real concern. Not much to be done about it now. He has no bandages and is in no position to remove the knife. This is how he will ride until he reaches Trosky on purpose or anywhere else on accident.

Behind him, the knight stands, a colossal sound of scraping plates and creaking leather chasing after him. One more long look and he nods, walking to the dying body of his employer. The knight bends down to strip the soon-to-be-corpse as Henry gallops off.

No good deed goes unpunished.

Chapter Text

Hans awakens the morning before von Bergow’s celebration with a languid stretch. Sun streams through the window, lightly warming his chambers. Helping Henry sleep through the last morning certainly helped Hans sleep through last night. Christ, the life of a squire. He could never.

But saying he’s sorry will only go so far. Hopefully a day of mild labor will do something to convince Henry he’s serious—that he does apologize. That he does want to change. That he can and, more importantly, will do better. 

(And . . . It’s nice. Doing things. For Henry.)

Heartened by finally being of use to Bohemia’s most useful man, Hans cheerfully swings himself over the side of the bed. 

The instant bare feet touch chilled wood he scoots back under the covers. Right. Fuck the morning and the people who love it and most of all cold fucking floors. That shite wakes him more than the thought of Henry breakfast. 

Ugh. The further he is from sleep the closer he is to tonight’s responsibilities—wining and dining with a crowd of nobles he doesn’t know and doesn’t care about. Trying to not lose too much of his dignity begging von Bergow to sign the damn treaty so they can go the fuck home. Getting just drunk enough to be pleasant but not so sloshed he makes a fool of himself or all of fucking Rattay.

How fun.

Hans sighs, scrubs a hand through his hair, and does the bravest thing he can—standing up and getting dressed. If he can find Henry he’ll at least have a chance to complain. Provided the man isn’t having another doe-eyed chat with fucking Black Bartosch.

Hans grabs his clothes in a huff. He has to squint while unfolding them, the previously-pleasant beams of dawn now seeing fit to stab him. Petty anger keeps him warm as he looks for his shoes. He locates the bastards under the bed, likely kicked there during his exhausted stumble the night before.

No good deed goes unpunished.

Dramatics settled for the morning, Hans finally pulls his shite together and heads for von Bergow’s table. It would be rude not to show face the morning before a party (like he hasn’t done all the other mornings), though he’d rather be on the opposite side of the castle from the fucking Chamberlain. Christ, he’d rather shovel Pebbles’ shite again than be forced to sit next to that spineless rat . 

With any luck he’s managed to over sleep just enough that he can catch the tail end of things and leave without—

God damnit. 

Breakfast, sadly, is in full swing when Hans arrives. And irony, being a cruel bitch, has made it so the only seat left is next to the Chamberlain. 

Hans takes a breath before fully stepping through the door, far too committed to abandon ship now. He squares his shoulders and pastes on the smile Henry hates most: 

“Christ, what the hell is that? Stop it! Jesus, what a haunted visage. We’re going to meet Theresa, not one of your stuffy noble pricks. Stick your soul back in your chest before you scare the poor girl. And, in case you forgot, she stabbed a pitchfork through the last man who frightened her.” 

Theresa, unlike Henry’s frankly ghoulish descriptions, ended up being a perfectly polite and intelligent lass. Certainly better company than the dreck he’s forced to converse with now. Von Bergow, of course, is either too tired or too disinterested to add to the discussion. This leaves Hans, the scribe, and fucking chamberlain Ulrich to entertain themselves. 

This is, predictably, a disaster. Hans spends breakfast nodding along to the scribe’s mad rambling on his left and trying not to explode at Ulrich’s every underhanded jab on his right. Being the bigger man is exhausting. (Pretending to give a fuck about any of this is exhausting.)

He misses Henry. 

Hans spends an hour pushing food around his plate, coming up with increasingly more severe execution methods. The subject of said executions possesses a terrible face best described as the exact middle between Hanush and Ulrich. Maybe with a bit of Istvan’s swagger for spice. 

When manners dictate he can leave, Hans gives the most effusive goodbye he can manage before all but bolting out the door. If he wasn’t so fucking obsessed with Henry these days he’d head for the bath and bury his head in the biggest pair of soapy tits he could find. 

Hmm. Henry. Henry climbing into his tub. Henry soaked to his braies. Henry stripping off his sodden linen shirt. 

Henry’s soapy tits. 

. . . 

Jesus Capon get it together . 

Tempted to dunk his head in the nearest trough, Hans considers that seeing Henry in this condition might make him a bit . . . Transparent. The desperation is probably leaking through.

Bartosch walks by, giving Hans a nod. Hans nods back, nearly biting his tongue off in the effort to do so. He catches sight of a grin that is all-too-knowing as the man strolls away. 

The desperation is definitely leaking through. 

God’s blood. He needs non-Henry friends to talk about this shite with. He tells the man everything else, a few kept secrets won’t kill anyone. But who can Hans go to when Henry himself is the problem? Radzig? Fucking Hanush? HA.

. . . Godwin, maybe, if the withered priest was here. Or Oats, if he’d survived and Hans was willing to . . . edit some details. It would be better than standing here, stewing in a pot of feelings threatening to boil over with each passing day. 

Hans passes the barracks, making his way towards the stables instead. While tacking up Aethon, a job he insists upon completing himself despite the groom’s worried simpering, Hans thinks. Considers. Evaluates.

Sans Henry his options for people to talk to are a drunken, whoring priest or a dead man. Or perhaps a bathwench if he becomes suicidally desperate. 

And yet, somehow, this is an improvement upon his former life.

Mounting Aethon, Hans takes off for parts unknown. He needs some time to himself under an open sky before everything goes to shite. (Again. And potentially by his own hand.)

. . . 

Some time later, he’s trotting down a forest path when he comes across a corpse. It’s been stripped of any valuables, left to rot in the shade. Curiosity and desperation to get out of his own head drives Hans to dismount and examine the thing. Blood has long congealed under its upper body. Currently lying face-down, it’s hard to determine the cause of death.

Capon's good sense wars with the spirit of inquiry.

(The spirit of inquiry wins.) He pushes the cadaver over with his foot. Maggots crawl over the open meat of its throat and he immediately regrets everything. Urgh. That’s one mystery solved. The perpetrator, likely a wolf, is long gone. A pitiable but common fate for lone travelers. 

Curiosity satisfied, Hans is about to mount Aethon and ride back to Trosky Castle when he stops. If a wolf killed that man, or more likely a pack of wolves, why hasn’t he been eaten. Gnawed on. Anything. 

Capon walks back over, using a stick to turn limbs this way and that. He looks for additional injuries but finds none. This is suspicious, to say the least. Perhaps the work of an attack dog? Few masters let their hounds eat human kills. 

(Could he have? No. That would be an insane coincidence. Hans’ affections don’t have anything to do with this investigation.)

Any weapons or armor were stolen or left on the victorious party’s back, making it hard to determine what exactly happened here. Hoof and boot prints decorate the road, which means little what with it being a road. Additional blood has been washed away by the river. 

Further on, some drops lead away from the scene. Dog prints follow in their wake. Seems the perpetrator got away (at the cost of a new scar. Him, or the dog.) Ah, well. Any fight you can walk away from. All's well that ends well and whoever that was is probably doing just fine. 

Unable to fill in the remaining blanks (who was this? who did this? why?—), Hans mounts his horse and walks off. Stopping to smell the dead peasant can charm a man for so long. But now that he’s looking, those dog tracks seem to go back the way he came, don’t they? And those splatters of blood never really stop, do they? 

He spurs Aethon into a trot.

Henry wasn’t really around in the courtyard, was he? The sun long up and the lazy arse decided to languish in bed. Why, a more paranoid man would think that after one day of being treated like a king his squire now expected it every morn. In fact—

Kurva. In fact this is bullshit. Hans has fallen for his own lies dozens of times but anyone disparaging Henry isn’t worth trusting. Including himself. 

Aethon gallops down the trail. Hans tries to come up with a list of reasons why the stone settling in his gut is no proof, only truly demonstrating that he is both obsessive and a moron. The blood follows him the whole way back, its patches appearing more infrequently the further he gets. It’s midday by the time Hans returns, foolishly letting himself be cheered.

Well, until he gets to Trosky’s outer wall and spots a handprint. It is then he realizes that the horse’s stride had more to do with the splashes’ spacing than any miracle healing. 

The remaining trail is thoroughly obliterated once he’s properly inside the castle. Well, there’s an easy solution to this problem:

“You, guard. Were you here this morning? I need to know if a man came through. Probably stumbling, likely covered in blood. A little shorter than me, darker hair, eyes like baby deer. Makes you want to wrap him in a blanket for the rest of your natural life. Or his. Well, come on now. Speak up.” 

The guard, to his credit, snaps to attention immediately. He swallows, though, nervous. His gaze darts to his partner then out to the forest and finally stay on his boots. 

Smart man.

“Well, erm, sir. I was here in the morning and I did see a man pass through the gates . . . But he was no lamb. Fitting your initial description, yes. But the look on his face. Jesus Christ it gave me shivers. With how often we’re haunted with demons I was sure it was the Devil himself, come to take our souls!”

“And I’m sure you showed bravery befitting of your station by letting this ‘devil’ pass with nary a word.” 

“You have to understand, sir—I did my best! Blocked his path and everything. Asked where he thought he was going. Or, well. Tried to. He opened up that bloody maw and I saw the lake of fire burning on his tongue! The longer I stood in his presence the more damned I became! What can a mere man do against that?”

Capon sighs, scrubbing his face in frustration. “Oh, I’m sure there’s some verse of hymn or whatnot. Kurva. Fine, you’re dismissed. Return to your post and be on the lookout for any more devils.” Sarcasm drips from his tongue with viscous disgust. The man gives no visible reaction, choosing instead to bow and shuffle back to the gates. Hans sees the side eye as he leaves. Fool. 

Well. The good news is that certainly couldn’t have been Henry. His squire couldn’t scare a bee off a flower. Wouldn’t, even. The man would feel bad—

Boots mired in blood, soles caked in a reddish brown scab. Hose torn at the knees and covered in mud. Green gambeson dyed red with the gore of it all—

Alright. Maybe that could be Henry. Albeit Henry having a terrible day. 

Hans thinks of sitting next to the Chamberlain for an hour. At least they’re both properly miserable today. He was worried about going it alone. 

Hans decides to start his search for Henry with the most obvious spot—the barracks. Jogging over, he tries to note if anything is amiss: 

Pebbles is snacking on weeds outside the door, which is a bit odd. Conversely, Mutt is nowhere to be seen. Hans ducks back to check on the practice ring, and nay, no squire to be seen. Just Bartosch and his irritatingly handsome smirk. Capon pretends to not have seen him. 

Back at the door, seconds from pushing it open, dread reappears in Hans’ gut. Maybe he should check the bathes instead. It’s as good a place as any to get a wound banged, arguably bette—why is his palm sticky.

You know what. The question itself is an answer and Hans absolutely doesn’t need to investigate things further than that. He has important other investigating to get back to. He has no time to spend at all considering consequences or corpses. Because he’s going to open this door and not find either of those things. Obviously. 

He barges in before a picture of Henry’s corpse can solidify in his mind. Best to see the real thing, alive and calling him dunderhead for worrying over nothing. Mutt is the first thing Hans sees, curled over his master’s side, lips already pulled back in a snarl. Hans stops where he is, not making eye contact, letting him scent the air. 

Given a minute to breathe, the boy’s hackles go down. He gives a soft whine, then, nosing Henry’s hair. Henry, the arse, responds with a snore. While not nearly so Earth-shattering as what Hanush can produce, the sound serves to cut the tension.

Hans holds back a smile, watching the man’s shoulders rise and fall. His breathing is steady, unlabored. And, while the room is dark, no incriminating trail of blood makes itself known. No medical supplies lay strewn around, either. And his bed seems perfectly neat, save for its unkempt occupants. 

Henry is fine and Hans was overreacting. Henry is fine and Hans was overreacting. The man has been wandering from one end of Trosky to another, for a month, alone, and only now has had time to breathe. He can spend a few days in bed. He’s earned it. Sucking up to nobles is Hans’ job, anyhow. 

Henry’s just relaxing. Everything is fine. 

And to prove that everything is in fact fine, he should close the door and go about writing a speech for tonight. Or at least preparing an argument for von Bergow. (And he should definitely not do anything as stupid as shaking Henry awake to triple confirm that he's alive and not some sort of magically breathing corpse. )

. . . 

Hans closes the door, leaden heart dropping to his shoes and rolling underneath Henry’s bed. 

This is a game he cannot afford to lose. Not even to Henry. Especially not to Henry and particularly not today. 

. . . 

Christ. He really is a fucking coward. 

Hans leans his head against the door. He can feel the grain indenting his skin. His bones. Regret seeps into his joints and between his teeth. The longer he drifts near the door the longer the scent of copper binds itself to his tongue. Something is obviously wrong in there and he cannot fool himself into thinking otherwise. 

For anyone else he could, maybe. 

But not for Henry.

Is worrying for a friend really so terrible? Will stating the obvious truly lead to his most damning secret coming undone? 

Does any of it fucking matter while Henry is alone there and bleeding? 

What's changed between them that he's hesitating at all? 

. . . 

“OH WELL, WILL YOU LOOK AT THAT. MY FAVORITE SQUIRE HAS THE GALL TO SLEEP IN AFTER EVERYTHING I DID YESTERDAY. HOURS AWAY FROM THE MOST IMPORTANT PARTY OF OUR LIVES AND THE BLACKSMITH’S BOY IS—“ Hans, having stuck his head through the door to better enhance his yelling, stops when met with a face full of pillow. Potentially dying (Jesus), with one limb stuck under Mutt’s bulk, and Henry still manages to put enough spin on it that Hans is nearly walloped to the ground. 

Never has he been so happy to nearly get knocked on his arse. 

“Uuuuurgh let a man sleep, m’lord. We’ll have troubles enough tonight . . .” 

“I’ll let a man sleep when I confirm that said man isn’t fucking bleeding to death.”  

The silence after that statement is incredibly incriminating. 

“I have no idea what you mean . . .?” It's a lame attempt, even by Henry standards. 

Hans rolls his eyes, impatient as he crosses the threshold and starts fiddling around for a light. His arm for a candle, honestly . . . “Well, the bloody hand print was a definitive piece of evidence. But the trail that led me here did most of the damning. Tell me Henry, do you get into midnight knife fights for sport? Or is this some sort of bodyguard tradition I don’t know about.” The complaining serves to hide his true purpose–securing a roll of bandages and Henry’s potion bag. The rustling is well hidden under the sound of his bitching. 

“As you seem to have spent the rest of the time asleep I’m going to be charitable and assume you were going to tell me about this when you woke up. Because it would be a critically important piece of information, especially in light of things tomorrow.” Henry grunts, hiding his face in his arm and pretending to yawn. Peripherally, Hans wonders if the bastard was awake this entire time. 

“Now, where the fuck did you get stabbed. Or sliced. Or what have you. If a single bandit managed to castrate you it’s better to fess up now–” Henry pulls the blanket down with a roll of his eyes. His abdomen is bound in white linen. Some sort of poultice(?) is pressed into the lower left of his back. It looks a bit . . . wilted. “When was the last time you changed these?”

Shrug. His eyes drift stubbornly left, staring blankly at the wall. A sharp intake of breath where Hans pokes his side. 

“Don’t you sulk at me. I’m not the one who decided to get stabbed. Anyhow do you have any of this . . . leafy shite remaining? Things are looking rather soggy.” 

Henry snakes his unoccupied arm from under the covers and pats around for his bag. Hans sets it underneath his palm. Hand snaking in, it comes back with a jar of. Well. Something. Hans squints, trying to remember if he saw that particular mixture floating around Bozhena’s shack. 

“Henry, has anyone ever told you that you bear a striking resemblance to our favorite medicine woman?” Henry kicks him in the thigh and it nearly sends him off the bed.

“Arsehole. Alright you lazy bastard. Up. Up up up. We have bandages to change and potions to take and things to talk about. When you’re looking a bit less like I scraped you off my shoe, at least.” 

Henry gives Mutt a kiss on the nose (which is a stupid thing to be envious about) before pushing him off just enough to sit up. He looks terrible–In as much as someone as beautiful as Henry can look terrible–Almost diseased, with his white lips and red eyes and a tremor through his shoulders. His gaze settles somewhere between Hans’ jaw and his right shoulder. He says nothing, though the tilt of his brows imply guilt. Maybe embarrassment.  

“Just remembered taking a vow of silence back in the monastery, squire? Luckily for you I can talk enough for the both of us.” Hans unwinds the old bandages, prattling on the entire way. When the wound finally reveals itself he finds it to be blessedly small, though still vaguely leaking. He describes what he can to Henry, who dutifully nods along–Edges are pink, but not puffy. No yellow discharge or identifiable debris. Wound itself is about the length of the first segment of his thumb. Unsure about depth. Extremely unwilling to find out (especially with said thumb.) 

“I feared as much. It’ll need stitches, but . . .” Henry grimaces. With a couple of mirrors and the devil’s determination he might be able to stitch this on his own. But if Henry could have done something he would have. Hours ago. (Another dribble of blood leaks through, crawling down his back and adding to the stain on his braies.)

Which means this job is up to Hans. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Stop looking like you’re going to the gallows.” Henry winces and he almost feels bad. Almost. “Needle and thread. I know you have them. Come now squire, cough it up. We’ll make short work of this mess and then you can go back to lying around.” Hans delicately leaves out that once Henry is asleep, he will not be awoken until the dust has settled. Both today’s and tomorrow’s.

Henry is either too tired to pick up on this implication or is in too much pain to give a shit. Hans decides to be grateful about it.

The explanation of stitches is blessedly short. Henry takes a pain killer potion while Hans grimaces at the iron needle. Somehow too sharp and not sharp enough, he worries about putting any more holes in his friend. Thi-This is not going to be fun.  

The point slips into flesh with terrifying ease. Hans winces, watching the muscles at Henry's shoulders tighten. Poppy can only do so much. The wound is fully closed with three stitches, white thread now turned pink. They breathe as one when the work is done, releasing a collective sigh.

Though it seems tying the knot will be the hardest part of this endeavor. Henry describes some complicated bullshit and Hans has him repeat it thrice before actually attempting the damn thing. Jesus. He is never doing this again. 

Hans' skewed stitches stare back at him before Henry moves to face him lightly stretching. Nothing pops, thank Christ. But with a warm chest suddenly flexing in his face, Hans fixes his eyes on Mutt. He very deliberately does not think about soapy tits. 

Now, to try and convince Henry to stay the fuck in bed. 

Chapter Text

Henry rolls out of bed just before he’s set to meet with Capon (though he suspects Hans won’t be terribly happy to see him). The floor is cleaner than he left it--bloody rags thrown away and unused bandages packed neatly into his bag. The room smells faintly of incense, though the stick is long burned to ash (and where did Hans get that from?). He gives Mutt a pat as he grumbles at being displaced off Henry's lap. 

Clothes are easy to settle–-He’s long since cleaned and mended his finery from the wedding, dubious memories of the occasion aside. Grimly, he supposes the red monochrome will serve to hide any popped stitches.

While he doubts von Bergow will mind if a bodyguard wears armor to the feast, he still needs time to heal. The thought of putting on a chain shirt makes him wince. A gambeson stuffed under his coat will have to do. Now, gauntlets are hell to eat with (some juice or another always getting stuck in the fucking joints), but couters should suffice . . . hm. Brigandine legs? Perhaps a bit too noisy for an event where he's meant to blend in. Henry won't be protecting Hans with his thighs if an assassin decides that this is his night to die, anyhow.

Christ, isn't that a fucking image. 

Significantly more unarmored than usual, Henry thanks Jesus Christ he spent an entire night making potions--Marigold, Chamomile, Cockerel, Buck’s Blood, and another round of Painkiller. They mix unpleasantly in his gut, but Henry’s been downing a cocktail of odd concoctions since he first learned alchemy. Schnapps may still put him arse, but he figures he could out drink the entire kingdom in Artemisia.  

Isn’t that a depressing thought. 

Suitably dressed and drugged, Henry makes to leave when he notices something has been left at the foot of his bed--A . . . flower crown? Not terribly well made, the circlet features an odd combination of poppies and marigolds. Red and gold, they compliment his hood's embroidery rather well. And, rather obviously, it's a present from Hans. Perhaps a peace offering, maybe something he made to keep his hands occupied. Lopsidedness aside, it's charming. 

Fuck it, Henry wasn't going to wear a helmet tonight anyways. He nestles the flowers into his hair, feeling a bit ridiculous (but also a bit prettier. More prepared to spend the night cavorting with nobles). Whether a nicety or an accident, it's a kind thing Hans has done. The man is infinitely more tender when he isn't thinking.  

Finally ready to leave, Henry ambles to the practice ring. He still has a reward to collect from Bartosch.

One more shiny object with which to impress the nobility. 

Bartosch himself is relaxed at his usual post, black hair turned brown and gold in the light. Leaned against the fence, his armor also catches the waning sun--obviously polished to a mirror shine. A scent of orange blossoms drifts on the breeze. Expensive. Someone's come prepared for tonight. 

The two exchange pleasantries, Henry preparing to walk back with a shiny new longsword, when Bartosch catches his arm. Eyebrow raised, Henry looks up at the knight. His grip isn’t tight, more of a “wait” than a “stay,” but the action itself is rather curious. 

“Something else you need, sir?” 

“Ha! No need for that, Henry, at least when we’re alone. Outside of von Bergow’s chambers we’re equals.” 

“Of course, sir.” Henry grins like a man far too proud of himself. Bartosch lets go, rolling his eyes with an exaggerated sigh. 

“Truly, how your Lord Capon must suffer with such blatant disrespect.” 

“On the contrary—He seems to rather enjoy it.” 

“Suppose I might as well.” That same sharp look as before flashes across Bartosch’s face. Mischief paints across his features as the knight leans back against the fence. 

Henry narrows his eyes, considering. He knew this dance even before his months on the road. His initial courting of Bianca went much the same—coy looks and implications of prowess (though with leagues less subtlety). Bartosch hasn’t technically given any proposition, but he's working his way to it--Laying a foundation of implication before the final reveal. 

It’s an odd feeling, being courted. One he never thought he’d experience. Bathwenches and prostitutes yelling for his (monetary) affections are wildly different from this. 

Henry’s reminded of the miller’s boy, Hensel. Though this particular flirtation is less . . . aggressive. Or one-sided. What ties the two is that Bartosch and Hensel both want danger. They want a fight. Henry can very easily provide that. But where Bartosch wants a draw or victory Hensel wants to lose. (And there was something scarily satisfying about giving it to him. Much the same as sparring with Bartosch or Hans is satisfying. But darker, somehow. A step down a path he doesn’t understand.)

Point being, Henry has been found attractive to men before. He’s just never done anything about it. This could be his chance to change that. (And perhaps his only one for a long, long while.) 

“Aye, you do seem to prefer when I put up a fight.” 

“There isn’t much honor in conquering a fainting maiden. I prefer a . . . test of skill. Even footing.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Henry notices a peasant walking their way. He inclines his head, Bartosch flicking his eyes to the side. A silent understanding falls over them and Henry gives his goodbyes, leaving the knight bereft of any meaningful response. 

He can deal with that after the feast. 

. . . 

An hour later Henry is meandering around the castle, trying to find Hans. Surely he hasn’t gone to the feast already? It seems unlikely, considering how much he despises the Chamberlain. And though the man is loath to admit it, he hates being alone in a crowd. 

Henry can’t really blame him. He understands the machinations of the rich and powerful enough to know he wants nothing to do with them. Better literal backstabbing than figurative. Plate and chain will help with the first. Few things will prevent the second. 

Footsteps sound behind him. Henry turns and his side twinges, suddenly nose-to-chin with his wayward lord. Hans jumps back, face red, looking vaguely distraught. 

“God be with you, Sir Hans.” 

“Yes, yes, hello to you too Henry. I’d ask what brings you up here but I fear I already know the answer.” 

Henry pauses, confused. Surely Hans doesn’t think one stab wound is going to keep him in bed the whole day? 

“. . . To accompany you to the feast, as was planned three days ago?” 

Hans huffs. Scrubbing a hand through his hair while he glares at his shoes. “Well Henry, I wouldn’t think you’d forget so soon but you had a rather traumatic run in with a knife this morning. That tends to disqualify people from partying. I’ll bring back some leftovers tomorrow, if it means so much to you—“

“Hans.” The man shuts up, looking an odd combination of stubborn and guilty. “Do you really think I’m going to let you walk into that den of vultures alone? You stitched me up yourself, you know the wound is small. Just as you know I’ve gone through worse battles in poorer condition.” And will continue to do so in the future. 

The man winces and Henry knows it will be the only acknowledgement he will get for being right. Another reminder of the difference between them. That those battles will some day be Hans' , just as the order for Henry to fight wounded will also be his. 

Hans’ voice drops to a harsh whisper as he herds the squire into an empty room. “Yes, good old St. Henry, ready to throw himself upon the pyre once again. Has it occurred to you that maybe just this one time I don’t want to be out shined by my hand? That for all you can do everything diplomacy is indisputably still my job? I don't need to lug you around for that. Hell, your peasantly features might make negotiations worse for us.” 

Out shined? “Aye, m’lord. It’s come up once or twice. I have no intention of taking your place. Just standing at your side, where I belong.” Like a good dog. "And as these 'peasantly features' have been gruesome enough to make better men than Chancellor Ulrich run and hide, I think you'll still have use of me."  

Most of the fight leaves Capon after some token sputtering and similarly flimsy arguments. Henry suspects that his true objections lie elsewhere. 

Another long sigh and a look of ill-concealed shame, "I miss Rattay, Henry. But I don’t miss it so much that I’m willing to risk you during the inevitable conflict. I don’t miss fucking anything that much. Let me tell von Bergow that something’s come up and you can’t participate. That you're busy saving young virgins, or dying of plague, or translating the Iliad to German, or something.”

“If you think I’m leaving you alone on a battlefield with naught but ill-trained soldiers and chamberlain fucking Ulrich—“ 

Hans cuts in, brow furrowed so deep it shades his eyes. “What I think as your lord, Henry, is that you should stay behind and heal like a sane man. Let us healthy folk go out and have a nice, clean, decisive victory.”

“If you expect things to be so 'clean and decisive' then I don’t see why I need to stay behind.” Henry crosses his arms, unblinking. He will not be swayed. 

Hans hisses, frustration mounting as he leans in close, “You need to stay behind because you’re the only—!" The door adjacent to their little spat opens, causing the two to jump apart. A maid walks through, bowing to Hans, before moving further into the room to clean. 

This marks the end to the conversation. 

Henry looks at Capon and speaks, voice deceptively even. “I think it’s time for us to leave for the feast, m’lord.” 

Hans’ jaw tightens, shoulders raising as he begins to object. But the will to argue leaves as quickly as it comes. He collapses forward, self-righteous strings cut and replaced with bone-deep exhaustion. Henry can’t tell if he’s sulking or mourning during their walk to the celebration. For once, he doesn’t wish to dwell on his lord’s capricious mood.

Right before they enter the hall, Hans mutters something under his breath about flowers. Henry doesn't catch most of it, and cannot ask for clarification as they walk inside. Oh well, it's probably nothing important. A matter for later, if at any time at all. 

. . . 

It’s a long night of talking to diplomats and defending Sir Capon’s reputation. It seems the people who have heard of him don’t think much of him, and the ones who haven’t don’t think anything at all. Henry’s grinding his teeth by the end, both at Hans and for him. 

Capon himself has been doing rather well, charming nobles and giving a fine speech to von Bergow. His “subtle” attempt to get the attack delayed was met with bemused laughter, but Henry appreciated the thought. 

As much as he wants to wring the man’s neck today, it’s nice to be cared for. 

They’ve been snapping at each other on and off since, though von Bergow’s presence has softened their barbs. An outside observer might even mistake them for friendly. (Albeit a blind one.) Though they’re making a piss of it, the pair need to present a united front. If for no other reason than being obviously divided would give Ulrich something to smile about. 

Jesus. Imagine putting that tosser in charge of an attack. What in Christ’s name is von Bergow thinking?

Finally snatching a free moment, Henry wanders over to Bartosch. The knight stands ever-vigilant at the back of the room, watching his charge and guests with casual diligence. 

Now seems a good time to talk, while the man is visibly fighting boredom and the nobles are too drunk to get up to anything nefarious. Bartosch smiles at his approach, eyes flicking in Henry’s direction before returning to their task. “It’s good to see that all the political chatter hasn’t made you forget your friends of lower fortune.” 

“Aye, can’t go leaving one of my own. We bodyguards have a terrible enough lot as it is.” Henry tries not to smile too hard as Bartosch’s gaze drifts towards Hans. It seems they were even less subtle than he feared. 

“Yes, I suppose we all have our burdens in life. Though, Henry, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to share mine with you. Preferably with some brandy, once the festivities are concluded.” The alone in my chambers is left implied by a calculated raise of the eyebrow. “Provided you aren’t otherwise occupied, of course.” Another pointed look at Capon. 

Henry huffs, bitter, despite himself. He doesn’t need to check behind his shoulder to see the glare burning into his back. Ma frowns, not at the exchange, but at the implications toward Hans. For once, Henry ignores her. 

He feels selfish tonight. 

He wants to forget lords and their scheming (and affections he can never express). He wants to forget the burn in his chest every time a certain smile lights his way. The pride that threatens to drown him when the fool is shown to be a better man. The love oh-so-like his mother’s whose ending can only be a broken heart or a shallow grave. 

“Nothing that won’t wait for a night.” Henry’s voice drops an octave, lowering with the roar of the crowd. “Besides, I have something different in mind.”

Naked interest paints itself across Bartosch’s face—a twitch of the lips and pupils blown wide. It’s almost obscene, given the circumstance. Henry, flattered, elaborates: “The baths. I imagine they’re empty this time of night. Provided you aren’t otherwise occupied.”

“Ah, but I have already washed today. Considering your . . . musk, I might be the only one.” The cocky smile turns flirtatious. Playing hard to get, sir knight? 

“Really? Well, I’d hate to offend these fine folk. Why don’t you help me wash up?” 

“I suppose it would be a disgrace to von Bergow if I let an ally go into battle any less than fully prepared. We’ll have trouble enough on the morrow without you giving away our location.” Bartosch smirks, and Henry gets the distinct impression that the man wouldn’t mind if he walked into battle wearing an entirely different scent. 

Perhaps Henry is a fool, eschewing the company of one noble for the bed of another. But this might also be as close as he gets to touching the sun. The celestial body stays forever out of his reach, but a lick of its fire has descended from on high.

“Far be it from a pair of humble guardsmen to disgrace their lords.” 

And it would be a sin to refuse the invitation. 

Chapter Text

An hour later the pair are finally able to slip away. Henry leaves first, his only obligation to Hans (a man who retired to his chambers as soon as was polite.) Bartosch has more loose ends to tie, delaying his escape. But the gap serves to better cover their arses. 

But when a man is left alone for minutes on end before a very forbidden tryst. Well. He can’t help but think. Especially when it’s new--all of  . . . this. (Not intercourse in general, Christ no. In another life, he and Bianca got up to enough shite to leave them both thoroughly deflowered.) 

The newness comes from feeling that he should be ashamed but isn't. His conscience is a constantly guilty thing, always taunted by the day's innumerable failures. Perhaps he's finally met his limit. (Or perhaps just this time there's nothing to be guilty about.) His only true anxiety is at the danger--dreading the possibility of being found out.

But even that has a certain thrill. His blood pumps the same here as before a battle, fear coloring the excitement into something he can’t name. (Or doesn’t want to.)  

Fingers wrap around Hensel’s neck. An intake of breath implies more than surprise. A whine escapes between paling lips and Henry feels himself begin to squeeze harder. And isn't it odd that something about this is fun? Hensel even thanks him after. Doesn't scream or curse as Henry would deserve. The circle of bruises forming at his neck are ugly, stinging things. Hensel touches the marks like jewels, quietly reverent. He offers to let Henry do it again (any time, really . . .), grinning madly.  

There is a divinity in the forbidden. He found a crumb of it there in that old mill. Power and fear are dear friends, after all. One usually begets the other and Henry felt both, then. Feels them now, maybe—The fear is obvious, his heart beating double time in an almost-panic. But the high of fucking von Bergow’s bodyguard under von Bergow's roof is potent in its own right. (A peasant dallying with nobility, isn't that a familiar story? Perhaps changing the ending has some power, too. Perhaps if he fucks the stars he will stop lusting after the sun.) 

Bartosch arrives just as Henry considers putting his boots back on. Remaining in his braies and shirt, Henry looks a tad overdressed for all this. But timidity (and fear) kept him from stripping fully. Bartosch is dressed much the same, albeit with his hoes still on, but Bartosch didn't spend the last twenty minutes preparing for a secret rendezvous. The bath is filled, at least, so it doesn't look like Henry stood around worrying the entire time. It steams cheerily, providing a reasonable excuse lest unexpected walk in. 

Bartosch grins as he watches Henry fidget next to the tub. He turns various shades of red as the appreciative silence stretches on. Being stared at was never this . . . whatever this is before. His blood has been stirring since their initial fight, only ducking to a simmer when he . . . got . . . stabbed. 

Hm. 

That might put a bit of a damper on things, might’n it? Blitzed on potions though he may be, feeling entirely himself and barely an itch from his side, it’s likely bad form to bleed on one’s partner. Or to rip one's stitches before either of you has had a chance to cum. Maybe this was a terrible idea after all. Perhaps the wound was a sign from God not to—

Henry is pulled from his darkening thoughts when a hand caresses his cheek. Skin on skin, an unexpected warmth. The sudden tenderness jolts him back to the moment. Bartosch, linen clothes dampening in the humidity, smiles wryly. “Second thoughts, my friend?” 

Henry sputters, flushing down to his neck. Blue meets brown and he looks somewhere, anywhere else before further making himself a fool. “I may or may not have, er, gotten stabbed not long ago. The wound is closed, from what I can tell. Not bleeding, at least. I’ve had a night’s sleep, gotten stitched up, and been chugging healing potions since then. I should be good for . . . this. We’d just need . . .  to be, hm, careful?” He clears his throat, breath catching as Bartosch’s hand slides under his chin. 

A single raised eyebrow and an upward twitch of the lips. Henry lifts the hem of his shirt, flashing the slightly-unraveled bandages. Bartosch remains unimpressed: “While that will exclude certain acts, yes, as long as you feel well enough I trust your judgement to continue . . . Yet, I suspect there is more to this.” 

Henry goes silent, trying to collect his thoughts. He looks at his hands as Bartosch waits patiently on. Somehow, the man doesn't show sign of disappointment. Despite the change in mood, he lets Henry take his time. They share several breaths, a precious few lengths apart yet neither moving to close the gap. Christ, he’s already fucked this up. 

“I-it’s not . . . second thoughts . . . exactly. Just . . . general worries. Anxiety. I’d say first time jitters but that might be overselling certain . . er . . . aspects of things.” Bartosch is doing a very good job of not laughing. It’s appreciated, as Henry will have nightmares enough about this interaction.

Really, Bartosch’s smile is wistful as he begins to pull away, “If you walk out that door I will not think less of you. This looks to be some kind of first experience and if you're not comfortable—” 

“Absolutely not.” Henry kisses him then, rushing forward and catching the man off guard. Their teeth clack together and Bartosch laughs, bright as day. They knock noses a few times as Henry tries to bend up and Bartosch leans to meet him, but it works. They work. Lips wind bitten and wine on their tongues. Past experience helps them both, eventually turning the initial cacophony into a pleasurable rhythm. 

Confident that Henry isn't about to run, Bartosch snakes a hand through his hair. Gripping the back of Henry's head, he's pulled closer. Chest-to-chest, Henry growls into the knight’s mouth. All bashfulness leaves him as the tryst becomes a contest.

Fear or no he wants this. His blood sings with it. It has been months since someone helped him find release. Not since Bianca, and Skalitz, and a thousand other things he wants to forget.)

This will not heal him but perhaps it will bandage the wound.

They’re a blur of clashing limbs and gnashing teeth after that. Warriors both, they’re equally aggressive—Henry licks into the man’s mouth while sneaking a hand under his shirt. Bartosch grabs his arse with an appreciative hum, breaking the kiss only when they run out of breath. Panting, he asks, “Where is it, exactly?”

Henry peers at him, thrown as blood rushes everywhere but his brain. They’re talking, still? Christ, why? “Where is what?”

Bartosch grins wider than Henry has ever seen him, giving an admonishing tug at his hair. “The wound, you fool. I need to know what to avoid.” 

Lust leaves the world hazy and Henry can feel himself descend into a place where words are beyond him. He uses the few he has left to answer the question before going for another violent kiss: “Low back. Left. Now shut up.” 

Bartosch accommodates with a chuckle, his hands trailing from shoulders, to ribs, to arse. Another squeeze. It’s all the warning he gets before Henry is lifted up and made to wrap his legs around Bartosch’s waist. 

What. 

Henry moans into his neck out of sheer surprise (incredulity? Jesus Christ what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck– ) before obliging. Bartosch sets him on the counter in the back of the room, letting go long enough to pull Henry’s shirt off. He reciprocates, their chests heaving in tandem. 

Henry has more obvious brawn and a thicker thatch of hair, but Bartosch is no scarecrow. Tufts of black peek out from under his arms and braies. The man would be slender if he hadn't spent the last half-decade of his life fighting bandits and protecting nobles. No wonder he can lift Henry with so little effort. Jesus. 

A myriad of scars mark their lives as adventurers and Henry kisses a pocked arrow wound on the man’s shoulder. Bartosch nips his ear in return, slowly working off his braies. Henry doesn’t make it easy, grinding on the knight’s leg the whole way down. His enthusiasm is met with an amused groan as Bartosch slides to his knees. 

With arms holding Henry steady on his perch, he looks down at the knight in reverence. Bartosch hums, appreciative, before taking Henry in mouth. Candlelight paints Bartosch in a soft glow. By day he is glorious but by night he is resplendent.

The squire shivers, moaning, temporarily overcome. “Mother . . . Mary . . .  full of—uhhhh—grace . . .” All he can do is grab a fistful of hair and pray as Bartosch somehow sinks deeper. All worries of blasphemy evaporate in the wet heat and sheer desperation to hang on for one breath more. (God rest her soul Bianca tried but it was nothing like this. Even the bathwench Hans bribed out of mocking pity. Neither holds a candle to the tongue of a practiced and enthusiastic knight.) 

Henry doesn’t last much longer, cumming with a moan he feels rumbling up from the depths of his soul . 

Bartosch stands, nearly as shaky, wiping his mustache with a smirk so self-satisfied that it should be annoying. On Capon it would be annoying. On the knight it is charming—A well-earned sign of his prowess. (Henry does his best to kill the realization that he prefers his male lovers with an ego.)

Exhausted, but not to be out done, Henry pulls the man in by the waist of his braies. Bartosch lets him, ever magnanimous. Henry mouths the junction between neck and shoulder. His teeth ache to leave something behind, but Rattay bathhouse rules flash through his mind—no pregnancy, no excessive force, and no marks on the girls— And he figures they apply well enough to this (presumably) one-time tryst. 

Belatedly remembering that he prepared for this , Henry slaps his unoccupied hand on the counter until it finds the bottle of oil. He then slides Bartosch’s last stitch of clothing, hoes and all, to the floor. He  takes a second to appreciate the sight. It seems the man enjoys giving as much as receiving. Henry takes him in hand and the knight lets out a low breath, leaning into the touch. Warm. Soft. Almost velvety at the tip.  

Henry slicks him up in a few short strokes, dedicating the shredded remains of his resolve to the task. For a second, he fears that the roughened callouses of his palms will pose a problem. But Bartosch moans all the same. Harder, even. A sound made sweeter by escaping between clenched teeth. 

Skin burning while his legs start to shake, Bartosch leans his head on Henry’s shoulder. He whispers poems between staggered breaths, indulgently filthy things that utterly pale in comparison to the achingly desperate, “Faster. I beg you, faster.” that comes a few minutes later. 

Trembling hands white knuckle the counter as Henry obeys. Right hand occupied, his left wanders to Bartosch’s arse. He kneads the muscle, then considers. Fingers trail down, down, down before they halt. The knight groans at his discovery (oh so close and already pleading) as Henry presses a single finger—

Bartosch cums with a gasp, falling nearly boneless into Henry’s waiting arms. Now it’s his turn to whisper sweet nothings—“You did fantastic. Jesus, I may never cum like that again . . .”—while the man recovers.  

Eventually, they do actually move to the bathtub. (Though Bartosch insists Henry sit on a stool so as to not get his bandages wet.)

(Well. More wet. ) 

. . .  

“Oh. Henry.”

“Hrmmm . . .”

“You’re bleeding, my friend.”

“God . . . fucking. Damnit.”

“Also, I am just now realizing I forgot to lock the door.”

Henry bangs his head on the wall, deeply reconsidering going outside today. Or ever again.

Chapter Text

A scant hour before dawn Hans is awake, tacking up Aethon and trying very hard not to think about last night. 

Henry seemed to have quite a lot of fun towards the end. Talking up that Bartosch with a smile Hans has, until now, only seen directed at himself. One of the comforts of meeting Theresa was seeing for himself that whatever was once there—whatever childhood crush or battlefield love or mere infatuation—had long since transformed into something . . . Familial. Henry held no interest in her. Or any woman that Hans had introduced him to since. Not beyond getting his cock wet. 

But last night? Henry showed interest in Bartosch. Grinning, laughing, and carrying on like they were the only two in the room. Watching them nearly made him combust. Hell, Hans considered ordering Henry to leave with him, to get some fucking rest before they're forced to be led through a skirmish by Goddamned Chamberlain Ulrich. He retired early instead, tired of pretending around nobles who didn't know him nor care to. 

(Never mind that Hans has seen this before—disgracefully wet cow eyes and innocent country charm turned to melt even the coldest wench--albeit in a slight different context. Women can smell sincerity, and Henry of Skalitz (God damn him) is dripping in it. Hans is just too busy being nervous jealous angry to accept it.)

Fucking women is old hat to the both of them. For as much as Henry protests, for as shy as he is around the bathwenches, Hans knows better. He's seen the idiot walk out of feasts with women twice his beauty and thrice his status. Chasing skirts are how they spent half their nights in Rattay and never once has watching made him feel like this. 

This is new. This is awful. 

He yanks Aethon’s bridle a bit harder than necessary as the horse nearly steps on a nail (damned useless stupid blacksmith). Aethon glares, thoroughly unamused. They’ve gotten along well enough until now but they don’t know each other. Not enough for Hans to pull him around. He’s a gift from a lord Capon is barely acquainted with, for God’s sake. The strings of their relationship are already tenuous, prone to snapping at the first sign of trouble.

And Hans is certainly trouble. 

The less friction he causes the smoother this will go. 

The horse stomps next to him, giving almighty snort. “I’m sorry, alright? Is that what you want to hear? I was trying to keep you from hurting yourself, but I’ll stop, if it’s so terribly repugnant.” His tone is unduly petulant. (So now his toys have rebelled and now he’s throwing a fit. What a good little lord he’ll be.)

Aethon snorts again, fixing his eyes on the trough, thoroughly ignoring his new master. Hans can’t blame him.

Capon sighs, casting his gaze to the black-blue sky. Hardly awake half an hour and he’s managed to make his horse hate him. Another auspicious start. “Yes, yes you’ve made your point. I’m bad and terrible and this is all my fault and I should have just shut up and let everything lie—" 

“Sir Hans!” Henry calls from not-nearly-far-enough-away. Capon turns around, hoping his squire didn’t just watch that horse-driven tirade. 

“Henry . . . Look at you! Here! Right now! As you said you’d be. When we agreed we'd be here . . .”

“Aye, sir . . .?” Henry squints, cocking his head to the side. Perhaps he didn’t see anything at all, thank Christ. There would be no end to the teasing otherwise. (Or worry. Or disgust. Or--)

Or maybe he did see something. 

Maybe last night’s attempt to keep him safe, of all but telling the man that Hans—Well. Perhaps the almost-confession has put them so off balance Henry no longer feels comfortable to jest. Perhaps he’s heard tale of nobles’ dubious favour before. 

Perhaps now he’s scared.  

Months of knowing each other and Hans, despite himself, has slowly learned two things: 

1. Henry is not half so slow as he portrays himself. A peasant who goes from illiterate to reciting Latin in half a year is no simpleton.
2. Henry lies like a fucking rug. About everything--small shite like the bathwench being the prettiest girl he’s ever met and huge, unimaginable things like promising to keep himself safe. 

Sometimes his flattery is so transparent Hans can barely stop himself from bawling with laughter. Sometimes he only has an inkling of what his overly clever squire is up to. And sometimes, camped out under a blanket of stars, whispered under firelight, Hans hears tale of all the lies he didn’t catch. 

It was disturbing, the first time, finding out that Henry had outsmarted someone. Outsmarted Hans, who was standing next to him at the time. Hell, the worst might be how trivially the man treated it. Like it was an especially impressive joke you tell your friends after the fact. Not an earth-shattering misjudgement on Hans' part.  

Fact of the matter is, Henry’s always lying about something. To someone. And he has no compunctions against whom, be they noble or clergy or perhaps even God Himself. 

So is he lying now? In the especially peasant way, where he leaves out crucial information or acts dumber than he is or spits complete bullshite with such confidence people naturally believe him anyhow. (If Hans wasn’t so smitten he knows he’d still be half-mad with envy.)

“. . . Sir?”

Jesus Christ he’s been wrapped up in his thoughts so long Henry’s beginning to look worried. 

“Is it illegal for a man to consider his words more carefully when he’s about to embark on a grand battle? Come now, blacksmith’s boy, keep up. You’re one to talk, anyhow, standing there gawking at your lord’s pontificating when you still have things to fetch—AND DON’T FORGET THE WINE WHILE YOU’RE OFF WOOING THE COOK!” Hans yells after his squire, long since turned towards the Maiden’s Tower. 

Thank God that worked. Hans goes back to tacking Aethon, fidgeting with straps long tied for want of anything else to do. Waiting is killing him and thinking is killing him and right now he has half a mind to march up to Osina, take whatever half-arsed piece of shite sword he’s going to offer, and just be done with it. 

. . . Of course, arguing with the blacksmith would get his mind off things. He’s certainly had worse ideas while Henry was gone. And really the man should be thanking him for helping out with such unknightly chores . . .

“Hail, lord Capon!” Hans jerks to attention just as he’s about to pick a fight with Osina. Black fucking Bartosch of all people has snuck up behind him looking very much like the cat that got the cream. Hans vaguely considers killing him and hiding the body in the stye. But no, that would be stupid. He's better served “accidentally” letting the knight die in battle-- 

“God be with you! I was afraid I wouldn't be able to catch you before we left!”

Bartosch ceases neither walking nor grinning until there’s naught but a hair between them. Hans begrudgingly inclines his head upwards, because of course the bastard is tall as well as handsome. He answers with teeth grit, smile twisted gruesomely upward. “And. God. Be. With. You. Sir. Bartosch. What has so possessed you with the need to track me down?” Like some sort of fucking prey animal. 

The knight’s voice drops, then, as he flicks his eyes past Aethon to watch Osina. The man in question is busy undoing all of Henry’s hard work on his hard work. Satisfied, Bartosch leans as close as he dares, damn near whispering in Hans’ ear: “I’m not the competition you think me to be, Lord Capon.” 

And then he fucks off while Hans is too busy trying to process out the what the hell of it all to stop the bastard. The implications are obvious, of course, but Bartosch is either very brave or very stupid to be so fucking blunt about it. A lesser man would fry him and Henry. (That same man would live out the rest of his existence as a friendless and miserable wastrel, but Hans has heard the stories. Knows what his fellow nobles have done in the name of a bruised ego. Knows what he’s done to Henry in that same name. One of many things that sit in his gut and rots at night.) 

All that shite aside, “I’m not the competition you think me to be,” is certainly a . . . statement. Whether those two got up to anything after he left the feast, Hans doesn’t want to know. Not now or potentially ever. But it seems Bartosch is bowing out, exiting a competition Hans couldn’t hope to win by virtue of never even fucking participating. 

It’s odd, realizing he’s let himself go mad over what seems to have been a fling. A flirtation. Blowing off steam before they risk their necks for von Bergow. Certainly nothing that would have been worth half a thought before.

Henry returns while Hans is still pondering, having been too busy to get into proper trouble. Osina remains unmolested, though judging by the spark in Henry’s eye that’s liable to change. “Your wine, sir.”

Capon takes it, amused. “Indeed. It is my wine. Though for how long you spent procuring it I fear now it may be poisoned—“ He grimaces at the end, belatedly remembering that the footing of their friendship is still unstable. And really, after all the shite he’s pulled Henry probably has wanted to poison him. At least once. 

His squire hands over the alcohol with a roll of his eyes, smacking Hans' shoulder as he leaves . . . Only to walk straight past the smithy. Well. Hm. Perhaps poisoning the wine has caused him to go a bit blind.

“Henry!”

“What!”

“I know you peasant folk can have trouble with directions but I promise the forge has not suddenly relocated to the barracks!”

Henry’s “Aye, sir!” is punctuated by the door slamming closed. Rude.  

What is that man up to? 

The squire appears a few minutes later, armor and sword in hand. Even from here Hans can tell it's in perfect condition and too fine to be something Orsina made. “Where the hell did you pick all this up? It’s too good for the common bandit and neither of us can afford to buy new equipment . . . Jesus Henry did you steal this off the guard?!" 

“Have faith, Lord Capon! Of all the people I’ve had to remind, I thought the last of them would be you, your lordship. Considering how often you order around the ‘blacksmith’s boy’ as if you’ve forgotten that his name is—-“

“Henry. You didn’t make all of this did you? Christ, where did you find the time? It’s been three days and this is far too much. God's blood, you didn’t stay up hammering away with—" Hans drops to a whisper, worry marring his face, “—your injury, did you?” 

Henry only scoffs, absentmindedly spit-shining a grease stain off the breastplate. “God, no. You’re right in that I’ve been too busy for this shite. Had some time at a smith’s before the wedding. I'd finished the present for young Semine but didn’t have much else to do for a week or so. I kept myself busy helping the old geezer (nearly on his deathbed that one, I expect his wife to have sent me a condolence letter every morn) add to his stock. I imagine he didn’t appreciate me banging away in the forge past midnight, but his purse kept him quiet. I kept some of the cast offs for later, in case my old shite broke beyond repair. Now, Sir Capon, they are yours. Wear them in good health.” 

Henry gives a bow so dripping in sarcasm Hans doesn’t know whether to laugh or kick him in the shins. His smithing squire presents the pieces with a flourish, looking rather smug for a man whose face is so low to the ground. 

“Oh, stand up straight you incorrigible fool. Imagine giving your lord the cast offs. Cheeky bastard. With our luck your disrespect will become a fashion amongst the peasants. And then what shall we nobles do? My mouthy squire shall surely be the death of me.” 

Henry, the arse, stands there pointlessly chuckling while Hans wrestles with the leg plates. “Make yourself useful and get a stool for your lord, oaf. And then for God’s sake help me with the cuirass or we’ll hold up the army until fucking noon.” Hans continues grumbling while his idiot squire does as he’s told. Still cackling, of course.

Legs buckled and sword at his belt, Hans sits at the stool. He waits for help with the chest armor only to find himself totally unprepared for when Henry finally enters his space. Warm hands pull the straps over his shoulders, smoothing over his back. He becomes acutely aware of the distance between his head and Henry’s ample chest.

The man smells as he did at the wedding—a combination of expensive perfume and the natural musk it never truly hides.

And, having just awoken, Henry isn’t wearing gloves. Hans realizes this just as a callused palm touches his neck, casually pushing his head to the side. Lightning sparks in the air and heat simmers in his gut. He knows with the certainty of the damned that the feeling of that hand will haunt him for the rest of his life.

Henry, of course, ever diligent St. Henry, takes his time. A job that should normally require three minutes extends into five, six, seven, eight. Straps are adjusted and readjusted. Thoughtful humming sounds in Hans’ ear. Warm puffs of breath caress his neck. Hems are hawed far past the point of plausibility. He starts to wonder if Henry is having him on towards the end but is enjoying the attention far too much to care. He can be the butt of an inane joke. That won’t be the part he remembers a decade from now lying in bed with his wife.

Eventually, Henry pulls away. Hans mourns the contact as soon as it’s lost, the cold space at his back more apparent than ever.

 . . .

Riding up to the front gate, Hans watches Henry visibly hold back a grimace at sight of Ulrich. Capon knows his face would look much the same if not for years of diplomatic training. He pretends to be perfectly content instead, a bright youth ready for adventure and not a dour noble trying not to fuss after his servant. If he catches so much as a wince from Henry he’s sending the stubborn mule all the way back to Rattay. Let Radzig have a word with him about being a self-sacrificing ninny. 

Ulrich spouts some superfluous nonsense about the wine and hangovers and Capon responds in kind. It’s all noble small talk and vague accusations of being irresponsible and the second Hans can leave this fucking shitehole of a castle—

“I hope you don’t have anything against me escorting you, Lord Capon?” 

Fucking Bartosch. 

“I can’t say what an honor it is for me!” 

Hans ought to be given an award for this performance. 

The rest of the chatter is no more intellectually provocative, and the Chamberlain’s blathering only worsens the longer it goes on. However quiet, Hans can’t stop himself from scoffing when the man declares that he plans on being painted in bandit blood. Certainly, you feckless nitwit. Have at it. Please, get as close to the action as possible. 

Hans’ mood only sours further once they’ve headed off and Bartosch decides to take his job of protecting them very seriously. Sadly, Ulrich also never strays. 

Their loose quartet makes for an aggravating ride. Any time Hans tries to talk to Henry one of the others insists on providing an opinion on the matter. From Bartosch it’s a suspiciously applicable tale from his time in Prague or on the road. From the Chamberlain it’s anything from criticism to disapproval to general complaint of malaise. Hans hopes he swallows an arrow. Or ten.   

“You two are pathetic! I get the impression you’re afraid to go into these woods, even with an army around you.” Make it fifty. God above if you love your creation make it fifty.

Hans readies himself for another round of grinning and bearing when Henry of all people speaks up. “I think I can see now why your lord barely escaped with his life. Maybe his captain underestimated the enemy as lightheartedly as you!” Apparently, the squire is as tired of Ulrich’s grousing as Hans. (Behind them, Bartosch gives a barely-disguised snort. It’s nice. Oddly.)

Trees creak and the forest breathes around them. It’s quiet here. Quieter than he remembers. But any birdsong is likely trampled under the great cacophony of hooves. So it’s probably nothing. 

Ulrich, allergic to letting anyone else have the last word, responds with his own vitriol: “Weigh your words carefully, young man. You lot didn’t fare any better yourselves!”

A stick cracks on their left and isn’t it strange that they haven’t seen any deer in ages? Surely it must be nothing. Because if it’s not nothing, that would mean—

“That’s exactly why I’d feel a lot more—"

Henry’s attempt to counsel caution is cut off with the thunder of gunfire. Chaos reigns as the rider in front of them goes down. Hans barely has time to realize the man is dead before a fucking tree is trying to kill them next. His attempt to spur Aethon is spoiled when an errand branch knocks him to the ground.

The world fades for a second as his helmeted skull hits the dirt. Instinct wars with cation as he moves to stand. If anything’s broken he can’t feel it and being a stationary target will kill him faster than infection.

There are no sickening cracks or horrible grinding sounds and he gets to his feet, just the sudden-onset terror of seeing Henry lying on the ground. Motionless. 

Fuck.

His heart drops to his boots, quivering, as he reaches out. Attempting to shake the man awake, he’s met with a groan. Thank Christ. No broken neck, then. 

The world continues to explode even as it narrows to just them. Footsteps pound and men scream and the only important thing is keeping Henry alive. Pulling him to his feet and getting into the fight. Ulrich’s stupidity won’t be what kills them.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit—!“

It can’t be. He hasn’t had time to prove himself yet. 

“Come on, for God’s sake. Get up Henry!”

After an insistent (terribly familiar, completely ineffective) attempt to pull the man forward, Henry reluctantly moves to his feet. “Yeah, I’m coming.” 

He’s still lethargic, listing to one side and on the verge of collapse. Hans gets ready to yell again, raise hell if he has to as frustration and fear begin to build. But something kicks in and Henry’s eyes sharpen. He shakes his head, takes a breath, and punches some poor bastard trying to sneak up on them. 

Oh thank Christ. Finally some violence Hans can get behind. 

Blood pours from the man’s face, nose turned to putty, and Hans grimly rejoices at his own choice of helmet. Henry then takes on the all-too familiar air of a professional murderer, piercing the man in his unprotected gut with all the ceremony of an exhausted fisherman. 

Satisfied that his bodyguard is in reasonably working order, Capon turns forward. Time to do some bloody work. 

It’s a massacre on both sides as they try to reach the mill. Ulrich picked their path, the daft cunt, plotting their trail through some of the easiest woods to hide in. Hans should fucking know and would have been able to tell them if he’d been listened to. But no, on soil foreign or domestic Henry is the only man who believes in him. And Henry, sadly, is but a noble’s bastard. 

Goddamnit. 

He watches archers and fucking gunmen cut through their forces like butter from the high ground. One shot nearly blows Henry’s shoulder off, leaving a bloody trail where it's ripped through his gambeson. Henry himself seems unaffected, barely giving the culprit a look before grabbing a bloodied shield off the ground and continuing to wage war. 

Hans decides to switch to his bow, a bit sad. As much as he’d like to turn the attacker into a pincushion, they absolutely do not have the time (or ammunition). Hans mourns what could have been while putting an arrow through his eye at 30 paces. A shame Hanush couldn’t be here to see that.

That and nothing else. Actually, fuck Hanush. He’d make this trip twice as miserable as it already has been. God’s blood. Imagine being trapped in Trosky forest with him. 

“HANS.”

Henry gives a downright unholy roar and Capon ducks on instinct. An ax flies over his head, biting into a nearby tree instead of his neck. Hans slides his dagger from his belt and stabs the soldier in the throat. Blood splatters against his helmet, nearly gets in his eyes. The soon-to-be-corpse tries to clutch its wound as Hans kicks out its knee. The bandit falls to the ground with a gasp, surprise painting its features even as Capon parts head from neck. It rolls to the ground and the body slumps forward. 

Dead. Almost praying, in this position. 

Another victory for Hans against the world at large. 

He gives Henry a grateful nod before returning to sniping. Some of the bandits at high ground have left, now that he’s taken to executing them. A handful of foot soldiers have deserted as well, having lost their nerve as Henry carves through their ranks. Hans wonders if he’d abandon his post as well, if someone with that expression was on the other side.

He watches out of the corner of his eye as Henry blocks a mace posed to cave in his skull. He proceeds to beat the attacker to death with his shield. Momentarily, the face of a scared but oh-so-angry peasant subsumes Henry’s. The same he wore five, six months ago, running next to Hans’ horse.

How the time has changed them both. 

They find Chamberlain Ulrich stuck underneath his horse not long after. (It’s not terribly hard, what with the screaming and flailing.) Hans rushes to get the ungrateful bastard out despite himself—“Just shut up and help me!”--While Henry stands in front of them both, shield raised to defend from the remaining archers. 

Ulrich is absolutely useless during the extrication: “Try to help me for fuck’s sake–!” Hans nearly pulls something while pushing up the dead animal, but they manage. The chamberlain’s leg doesn’t seem broken, lest the whinging arsehole be unable to stand. But they don’t have time to baby him while they’re being fucking shot at. “Henry, grab the Chamberlain and let’s get out of here!”

Of course, the second Henry puts down his shield an arrow flies from the trees and sinks right between Ulrich’s eyes. (Hans is never, ever, ever going to battle without his helmet.) The man barely takes a second to collapse the ground, letting out one final groaning huff before returning to the Lord.

Good fucking riddance. 

“Ulrich's dead. Henry, we need to GO!” The man nods, sword in hand and blood streaked across his face. He looks wild, then, in the morning sun. Dangerous. Gore is caught in his hair and stubble, gradually drying as the fight winds down. The blood almost reminds Hans of war paint, smeared ‘cross Henry’s cheeks and down his neck.

The perfect picture of a conquering soldier. Not a glimpse left of the boy who wore Hans’ abominable flower crown last night. 

Hell, he’s looking at Hans like food.

A shiver crawls down his spine, breathe still coming heavy, and– get it fucking together Capon. 

The archers seem to have fucked off, thank Christ. Fighting their way around the barricade is made easier for it, though the tree cover almost lets the enemy surprise them again. Henry’s overly-sharp ears save them both, unsheathing his sword and lobbing off a soldier’s head before Hans can blink. 

The rest of the jog to the mill is a similar massacre. Bodies litter the road on both sides. They meet one last band of resistance once the building is in sight, but exhausted bandits are of little threat. 

Watching Henry fight is like watching a scythe harvest grain. Every head that sways into sight is cut down. Hans finds himself positioning to cripple and defend rather than kill, trying to keep as many of the bastards off Henry’s back as possible. 

Blood slicks the ground, turning it muddy beneath their feet. The last man standing circles them both, trying to be careful where his fellows were reckless. His shield is raised and he visibly flinches as Henry strides forward, confident and unfeeling (and maybe a bit of a monster, now). It’s the excess of care that’s his real undoing, tripping as the muck sucks at his boots. Flat on his back and winded (screaming and afraid and so very young–), it’s an easy kill. Henry’s blade finds home in one last chest. 

“Let’s go down! We’ll lose them on the other side of the stream!”

They sprint onwards, tailed by the handful of von Bergow’s men who survived. It seems that they’re home free, now. Hans takes the lead, lighter and faster than Henry even when he’s like this. Two final bandits run up, one after the other, and he can finally do something now. Open their exit and make Henry’s life a little easier. Help him feel safe—

The first is dead with a slash to the throat, blood spraying. The second, however, takes advantage of his fellow’s falling body and catches Hans by surprise. The mace hits like, well, a mace to the side of the fucking head and he goes down like a sack of parsnips. His helmet flies off, likely dented, and he hits the ground in a daze. 

The world blackens and he does his best to swim through it. He cannot pass out. Not while Henry still— 

He manages to sit up while the bandit—Jan?--comes forward. Hans can’t hear shite while his ears are ringing, breath caught in his chest, and too weak to fucking stand. But he knows threats when he sees them. Knows anyone with a mustache that fucking smug isn’t going to let them off easily. Knows that it’s Henry’s arse on the line, now that they’re all but captured. 

Almost free. And he’s gone and fucked them once again. 

Goddamnit.

Chapter Text

“Hans . . . Hans! Fuck. Get up you noble prick! You had better not—" The sound of pounding boots interrupts him. Soldiers run to catch up but Henry barely notices. Can't, as panic he cannot afford begins to set in. Hans is drenched in blood. His own? A pissing head injury from getting clocked with a fucking mace? Someone else’s slipping through the helmet? Jesus Christ at least the man’s still breathing—

The firing line of crossbows clicks at his peripheral.

A single inhale.

Anger. Hate. Rage--This isn't fucking fair. None of this is. How can God--!

Acceptance.

Another breath.

Henry turns to look his fate in the eye. Hans will be safe, so long as the wound doesn't kill him. He's a man too important to kill.

Henry carries no such distinction.

Fear bolts down his spine as he stays crouched at Capon’s side. He eyes the shield that’s carried them this far. Considers one final act of stupidity to save his own skin, but ultimately throws it away. One stray bolt could be the end of Hans. And then where would Henry be? Dead all the same. But worse for betraying a friend. 

. . .

Henry hasn’t the strength to save them both this time.

One will have to do.

But just as the crossbow takes aim, and he closes his eyes to pray—“That’ll do!”— a familiar voice shouts from behind enemy lines.

No longer dressed as a suspiciously practical noble, Jan the bandit Captain jogs up to their position. It’s hard to tell at first, the full helm hiding his face and armor padding his build, but Henry knows voices. Knows this is the same man who met them at the gates. Knows their lives are in his hands.

Jan’s men pause, awaiting orders. Henry has a few more minutes left to live, it seems. Memories of Skalitz dance in front of his eyes, villagers strung up neck-first and left as a warning.

Let’s hope this brigand is the honorable sort.

“We’ll surely get a nice fat ransom from Hans Capon of Pirkstein.”  His voice is devoid of sarcasm. The bastard is far too satisfied with all this. Gloating, even. And how could he not? The cat has trapped the mouse under its claws. Now all that’s left is the kill. 

There are few things Henry hates more than being trapped. 

“You’ll have to take him first!”

If Hans was still standing, still aware, still able to speak , Henry wonders if he’d react a little less stupidly. If he’d bide his time while Jan played with his food. Use it to try and pull off a miracle. If he would talk his way out instead of looking down the gates of Heaven with a sword in hand and sin weighing his heart.

This is stupid and foolish and he is more likely to die than not . . . But Hans is in no state to argue. And Henry will not go quietly. Jan seems to respect this, at least, watching as Henry stands in front of his lord. They exchange barbs. The helmet comes off. They look each other in the eye as Jan waxes poetic about the trickery required to win a war.

Horses scream and Oats cries out, dying with a sickening crunch. Gone between one blink and the next, his skull cracked like an egg. Its innards lay scrambled across the grass, another friend lost to another ambush and all he can do is fucking hide.

“Coward.”

“Shut your stupid mouth! You’ve no idea who you’re talking to!” A lackey speaks up from the back line, conveniently far from Henry’s sword.

“I’m talking to a weasel who shoots from the bushes instead of having a fair fight!” The arse takes a step forward, spitting with rage. How brave.

For a second, the captain pauses. It’s hard to tell if Jan’s amused or simply disbelieving of Henry’s gall. Mouth agape, side eying his men, he watches the crowd become visibly unsettled.

Slowly, a smile forms. “You think so, eh?”

The cunt from before steps back a pace, uneasy, advising his commander to “Not dirty his hands.”  As if they aren’t already caked in blood.

And then the unexpected happens, and Jan hands his helmet to the man, exchanging it for a sword. “I’m beginning to think this young knight deserves a fair, chivalrous duel.” Henry hears the interest in his tone and wonders. Belatedly thinks of Bartosch. But there’s almost a crazed note in his voice . . . or perhaps the arse is trying not to laugh.

Jan doesn’t get many challenges, it seems. Or very few quite like this. Once again, Henry proves himself worthy of a second look by virtue of his utter strangeness. It’s more honest than a title, he supposes, or the family name he doesn’t possess.

“Cheeky, this one. Let’s see if there’s anything behind your words, boy! Hell, if you’re good enough, I’ll let you live!” It’s a better deal than he expected, if it's actually true.

Jan strides forward, decades of experience giving his steps confidence. Henry pushes down the automatic rush of excitement. Now is not the fucking time. Not with his life and Hans’ freedom on the line. Challenges are lower stakes than this. Or should be. A fight for a prize, not the privilege to see tomorrow.

Yet even while suppressed, a curl of curiosity wraps around his guts. 

They both settle into a high guard, mirror opposites searching for weaknesses. “So my boy, let’s see what you’ve got.“

They start with a nod, Henry going on the offensive. Already tired from slaughtering half of the county’s bandits, he can’t afford the long game of dodge, parry, parry, dodge, hit. They settle into it anyway, much to his chagrin. Jan is fresh, more than ready to drag this to exhaustion. (His side aches.)

Henry grits his teeth and pushes further, trying to expose an opening. Hans hasn’t said anything, too dazed or scared or focused on the battle. (Is his shirt sticky with blood or sweat?)

At one point Jan becomes tired of playing and decides to change the tempo of the fight—he feints right and Henry, desperate and tired and bleeding to death, takes it.

Slowly he watches the blade draw near, slashing at his left like Jan can smell the popped stitches. Still, they’ve both over committed. As fucked as Henry is this could also be an opportunity. As time stalls to a halt, Henry realizes his choices are to defend his weak side or do something truly stupid.

Rather predictably, he chooses the most reckless option possible and pommel strikes Jan right in the fucking eye. A glorious THUNK reverberates through the valley and Henry will remember this for the rest of his very short life.

Meanwhile, the captain’s sword cuts through his coat. But it almost definitely glances off the mail underneath (Christ almighty, Henry hopes it glances off the mail underneath.)

Jan, having fallen to his knees, is left dazed but impressed. Chuckling, even, when he regains his wherewithal. Feeling no sudden camaraderie, Henry tries to finish the job anyhow. Sadly, two of the captain’s henchmen stop him.

One lackey moves up to help Jan stand, the other stays to keep a knife at Henry’s neck.

He wonders if now is the time to start biting. And kicking. And growling. Behind one shoulder, Pa raises a judgmental eyebrow. Over the other, Ma tells him to kick them in the balls.

Ma makes a good point, Henry thinks.

“Žižka, you alright?”

The man in question stands, slowly, still facing away from the crowd at large. Formerly pristine armor now covered in blood, he turns, eye covered with a palm. Henry takes the moment of silence to admire his handiwork.

He should probably feel horrified about the violence. Both what he's just committed and what he had to do to get here. 

. . . 

He doesn't. At least not today. 

Still held back by one of the bastards from the lake, all Henry can do is watch as Žižka marches forward. He stops, mere inches from the tips of Henry’s boots, and leans down to ask: “So. Do you reckon you can trust an outlaw to keep his word of honour? Hm?”

He stalks away, leaving Henry to decide for himself.

The knife slides closer.

Hans stirs a few paces away, face awash with terror. Beads of blood drip down Henry’s front. He wonders if he’ll even live long enough to be hanged.

If it’s now Hans' turn to watch.

These next few breaths might be his last. 

"I'm sorry, m'lord."

Chapter Text

Not for the last time, Hans wishes he had his bow. At this short a distance, even knocked half unconscious, he could easily hit the man trying to slit Henry’s throat. Fire enough of a warning to scare him off, at least.

But no, he lost the damn thing in the underbrush. And now Henry is apologizing as if the daft bastard somehow did anything wrong. If he dies here like a dog it’ll be anyone's fault but Hans'—all due to his recklessness, his stupidity, and his desperation to get them home. Kurva, perhaps Hanush is right. Perhaps he is cursed to be a failure.

The knife digs deeper and Žižka keeps on walking. He just barks orders to round up the rest of the soldiers and make examples. Jesus. The cunt doesn’t fucking care. Not in the fucking slightest.

. . .

Hans is going to need to open his mouth buy Henry an opportunity, isn’t he?

Goddamnit.

(What Capon doesn’t notice, just as he moves to speak, still too disoriented to have a clear view of things, is Žižka turning back around. About to call his man off, he stops instead. Decides to analyze the young lord willing to risk his own wealthy neck for that of a servant’s. Is that desperation in the boy’s eyes? For a mere bodyguard? Odd. Maybe even useful.)

Hans coughs as he tries to suck in enough air to speak. It grabs the bandit’s attention enough to halt the knife. Henry’s eyes flick to the side as he releases a stuttering breath.

Time for another performance.

“Have you gone deaf, man? Are all outlaws so selective with their captain’s orders? Unhand him.” Hans forces himself to sit up; to focus his gaze on the bandit’s quadrupled, swaying outline; to put a mettle into his voice he does not possess. Make a man believe you have authority over him and it’s just as good as the real thing. Sometimes even better. (Perhaps Henry and his incessant lying has had more of an effect than Hans would like to admit.)

“I’ve ears same as you and they seem to working a might better, whelp.” Focused on someone else, the knife moves incrementally away. Barely a whisper between it and Henry’s skin but no longer drawing blood. It’s almost opportunity. “Žižka didn’t say shite about—“ —CRACK! “OOF—!”

Hans blinks and his squire has stomped on his captor’s foot. Henry uses the surprise to turn just enough to elbow him in the nose, blood gushing from the wound after an almighty crunch. Caught been two points of sudden agony, the man lets go. Henry follows up by doing the most dishonorable thing Hans has ever witnessed—which is to say kneeing the man right in the balls. Ow. 

Henry stands over the crumbled man, huffing but victorious. Crossbows click into place and the squire doesn't move a muscle, save for tilting his chin in defiance. Hans is reminded of the holy triptychs he's seen in various chapels, depicting conquering kings and avenging angels. Henry really is wasted as a peasant . . .

“I really should take your head off for that.” Žižka seems . . . less pleased. 

Henry wipes at his throat, already-red hood dyed a deeper crimson. “Somehow I doubt you will, sir.”

A hard look is shared between them, and Hans can feel the beginnings of a staring contest before Žižka just laughs. It’s sardonic, maybe a bit disbelieving. But ultimately the harsh chuckle sounds more of teeth than mirth. “Jesus Christ. I like you, boy.”

He saunters closer, stopping when they’re almost nose-to-chest. The bandit leans down, and even with voice lowered Hans is sure the whole valley can hear when he says, “But if you ever do that to one of my men again, deserving or otherwise, I will make you wish we’d strung you up for the crows.”

Henry, forced to crane his neck upwards, gives a stilted nod. “Aye, sir.” Hate stubbornly shines through the simple courtesy, but he says nothing more. Hans thanks Christ the idiot has somewhat learned to hold his tongue.

“Good lad.” Žižka leaves for a final time, returning to the task of bringing order to chaos. “Tie them both. If Lord Capon is still unable to walk bind his ankles and throw him over the back of a horse. We need to be back at Nebakov before nightfall. The bodyguard will walk with me. You’ve done well so far, men. All that’s left is to tie up the loose ends.” Blood dribbles down his chin and the man winces, suddenly remembering his wounded eye. “And, Christ’s sake, for someone to hand me a bandage.”

. . .

Nebakov is not the longest march Henry has ever done, nor the coldest or most painful. Perhaps not even the wooziest, after the week he spent getting drunk, passing out, and repeating the process until he ran into a bandit camp and awoke to a ring of bodies at his feet. (Skalitz be damned, that about killed any desire for booze for a few months.) But it is still a trial—watching Bartosch be carried away as Hans is bound to the back of a horse. Both are too far for Henry to ask after them. To check on them.

The part of him that fervently studies herbs and spends days brewing potions hurts to see the wounded. Something within him dies, seeing all this destruction. When he had childish dreams of adventure they never ended in such misery. He wanted for escape and independence not blood. (Even now, that is all he wants. Save for Istvan.)

But he’s changed since the days of childish dreaming. The part of him that caused this damage curls in satisfaction—For every dead body is a victory, every hidden wince an opportunity for escape.

Soaked in blood and feeling the last days’ little agonies creep on the peripheral, Henry lets his breath still. Low and even, he hazily watches the horizon, sinking into a place where he’s just-not-there enough to care about his aches and pains.

(Unbeknownst to him, Žižka is keeping a watchful eye. He expected trouble, truthfully. A half-cocked escape attempt that ends with one more body with which to decorate the trees. Some backtalk at the very least. But this . . .  unnerving silence is significantly more concerning.)

Hands literally tied, there’s not much Henry can do for his own bleeding. Blithely, he wonders if he’ll be forced to rip his own coat for bandages once they’re locked in the dungeons. Stitches are far out of the question—his needle and thread are rotting in the potion bag the bandits “confiscated” when lashing him to Žižka’s horse.

He misses Pebbles. And Mutt.

Sigh.

It is an appropriately long and miserable walk to Nebakov.

. . .

Hans is unceremoniously pushed into the cell, hitting the ground with a rather embarrassing THUMP. The scattered piles of hay are likely the only thing that keep him from skinning his knees on the repulsive stone floor. Henry, by contrast, is damn near politely shooed in. (If Hans were to mistake their captor for a kind man, he might pin the sudden clemency on the blankly wild look still in Henry’s eyes. Or the limp.)

“I hope Hanush has enough coin to pay the ransom for you.” Žižka puts his arms through the bars, leaning against the door like a smug cat.

“He will, no need to worry for that.” Hans responds through gritted teeth, trying his best to ignore the slimy floor beneath him. Urgh.

“It’s not myself I’m worried about, Sir Capon.” Another grin hidden under the mustache. Hans is really beginning to hate this man.

He turns to Henry next, ever nonchalant, “As for you, boy. Well . . . We’ll see about you.” Even with bars between them the two circle like alley cats. Hans prepares himself for a pissing contest—until they are suddenly interrupted.

The door slams open and Henry’s face twists with confused anger. Hans himself leans in to look, curious about their new “guest.”

Oh. Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding. There is absolutely no possible way that all the way out here it’s actually—

“Toth, you swine! You’re lucky I can’t get to you, you treacherous cunt!”

Istvan. Goddamned. Toth.

Jesus Christ.

Light erupts back into Henry’s eyes as he comes face-to-face with the man who stole his father’s sword. Stole the last memory of his father, really. Hans can’t imagine the feeling. Not that he has to, with the rage painted all across Henry’s features.

The further they travel the more they seem to leave behind the boy with the flower crown.

And whose fault is that.

Toth, for his part, looks piss-terrified of seeing Henry. Which he should, obviously. But Hans rather expected a few more “caged dog” taunts, or the like. Maybe some prancing around, waving the sword under Henry’s nose like a steak at a rabid hound.

“Don’t bark at me, you dog! Who the hell do you think you are—“ Oh, wait there it is. The ensuing screaming is predictable, and Hans expects very little out of this exchange until Henry mentions Sigismund. For then the room goes very, very silent. The sort of silent that hushes the birds and bugs. That leaves the forest on a quivering knife’s edge as a predator passes by.

Žizka’s brow furrows as he looks at Henry. “What’s he talking about?”

“Well, you clearly don’t know your own men." Hans, still sitting, elects to answer instead. Lets Henry keep busy tearing Toth’s arms off with his mind. “Although this one is Sigismund’s man. We’ve already had the honor.” It’s nice, having a chance to be the smug one. No wonder Žižka does it so often.

It’s then revealed that Istvan had been avoiding the ambush (and by extension, dear Henry.) Traitorous accusations all but confirmed, Žižka, clearly in a hurry, throws the cunt in the cell next to them. Apparently, he's decided to deal with everything later. Something about a rebellion kicking up dust outside. Hans can’t blame the man, though being forced to spend an extended period of time looking at Toth’s smarmy grin is liable to make him vomit.

Henry seems of a similar mind, though his way of dealing with the problem involves rather a lot more violence. Hans can’t say he’s opposed. Shame about the bars between them.

With some interrogating (and Sir Jaromir’s bitching) the whole sordid tale comes out—Toth was sent here by fucking von Bergow. Žižka supports Wenceslas. Toth plans on breaking Sir Jaromir out and running back to his commander. And, for all his murderous plundering, Istvan claims he’s only ever acted on direct orders.

Hans thinks of the stolen sword and a hundred little cruelties and finds himself doubtful.

The longer the conversation goes the more his own blood begins to boil. How Henry can content himself with yelling while Toth’s neck is so tantalizingly close, Hans will never imagine.

It’s just as the bastard has finished taunting them about the time needed for the Rattay ransom and Žižka’s inevitable loss of patience that someone else appears--White armor streaked grey with smoke and dirt, his nose beaten bloody, in walks a man Hans does not recognize. Istvan seems overjoyed at the fucker’s appearance, however, so he is certainly no friend.

Henry stiffens, shoulders going taut the way they do when he remembers Skalitz. Luckily for them both, there is apparently not enough time for gutting. A getaway must be had before Žižka returns with unholy vengeance.

For a split second, it seems Toth will try to dispatch them anyhow. Hans swallows, the gallows hanging heavy in his mind as fantasies of disembowelment play across Istvan’s eyes. Better here with Henry than alone in bed. “Erik” urges him away, however, and the cell’s former occupants make a hasty retreat for the door.  

They are alone again, left to the whims of fate. Fighting sounds outside, drawing closer with every breath. Smoke paints what little Hans can still see of the sky.  

“What the fuck was that?”

Stuck inside. Helpless. Force to fucking wait. Kurva.

“FUCK.” Henry kicks a bucket in response, more angry than flabbergasted. Frustrated at Istvan getting away again. Jesus. Hans is about to join him in spitting nails. Anger is safer than fear of the walls closing in.

But, of course, the door opens one last fucking time. There’s a twinge of fear at the possibility of Žižka’s return. Knowing that the fortress is burning and his men are lying dead and the ransom from Rattay will not return for days. Picturing Henry doing something stupid and brave and getting his head turned to pudding by a killing blow meant for Hans—

 “Praise be to our Lord Jesus Christ, gentlemen!”

“GODWIN?”

Chapter Text

Henry doesn’t trust Žižka. He’s pretty sure Hans doesn’t either, but Henry really doesn’t trust Žižka. The man seems truthful. It appears as if he wants to help, for revenge on Istvan if nothing else. And putting Toth behind bars certainly proved that he’s no servant of Sigismund . . . But the attack at the camp keeps flashing through Henry’s mind.

It was a lightning strike of devastation--People, potential friends, gone in an instant. No care, barely any remorse. Katherine only saved because Henry drew attention to the attacker. How close an eye was the captain keeping on his men? Enough to prevent that from happening again? Or is he still relying on Henry to sort out the riffraff? The killers from the truly insane? 

Henry doesn’t know. He doubts it, though, considering how much emphasis Žižka has put on “acceptable losses” and not needing honor to attain victory. Pa scrunches his nose in disgust. They’re both reminded of men they’ve met like Žižka. Three of them burned Skalitz.

Perhaps this only proves Žižka is right—that the only way to win a war is by fighting dirty. Perhaps without a man like Žižka (one who has never lost) they’re all well and royally fucked. Perhaps trying to put rules on violence is a fool’s errand.

Perhaps Henry just wants to be able to sleep at night.

He continues to consider their change in allies as he works with Godwin to bury the dead. The priest says his prayers and not much else, setting aside the sermons for when Henry is less obviously ruminating.

“Saving your words for later, lad? Not a word of complaint for the smell of the corpses or the sweat of your brow? Tell me, what’s on your mind?”

. . .

There's a long silence before Henry sighs, staring at the horizon as he digs his shovel into loose ground. “I don’t trust that Žižka.”

“Aye, well I’d be concerned if you did. It’s only sense not to put all your faith in a man you’ve just met and not an hour ago was threatening to kill you.”

Henry stops digging, glaring at the ground as he tries to gather his thoughts. Something like anger (or shame) flushes up his neck. “It—it’s not. That . Exactly. I’ve made friends enough with people who were trying to kill me. Or at least make my life miserable, in the case of Sir Hans. But—er. Augh.” He groans, frustrated, trying to put to words what he cannot clearly see in his own head. “It’s just. How am I to trust him with Capon? Every second I’m away from the damned place I worry the fool’s gotten himself kidnapped or Žižka’s decided we’ll make for better hostages than allies or—“

A shaky exhale he tries to cover by moving his shovel, letting the sound of met earth cover his fear. “—Or thought to take revenge for the men we killed to get here, starting with Hans and another noose. I don’t know I’m to sleep in this place knowing I could wake up back in that fucking cell or worse.”

Godwin hums in response, providing neither judgement nor support. Henry supposes one of the good things about being a priest is getting a feel for when people just want to talk. To say their thoughts out loud as opposed to having any true conversation.

Another shovel full of dirt goes over the grave. “Maybe I’m being paranoid. What with all the double and triple crossing and the finding out about Radzig and—I. I suppose I’m just having a hard time trusting anything I know to be true. And looking at Žižka I believe him. He has plenty of reasons to lie but I don’t believe he is. Not to us, not completely. No more than he lies to anyone else, I think. It’s just . . . Hard.”

It’s a rather lame ending to his tirade, but Henry doesn’t know what else to say. It is hard, going from one place to another, never knowing when or if they’ll finally make it home. It is hard watching people die day after day and being unable to stop it. It is hard being with Hans but never actually with him, always watching and waiting, and never doing anything because that’s his lord and what if, what if, what if—

Holes dug, bodies deposited, and graves filled in, Henry and Godwin celebrate a job well done.

“Oh, Jesus Christ this wine is terrible. I expected better from you, Godwin. Where the fuck did you pick this shite up?”

“Ha! Drink enough of it and you’ll stop noticing the taste. And I stole it off of Žižka, lad. Do you think I’d bring shite like this all the way from Rattay?”

They laugh on their walk back to the castle and Henry begins to begrudgingly enjoy himself. They break off when they come across a trough, Henry stopping to clean off the corpse stench.

Urgh. Now he just has his normal stench to contend with. Henry briefly considers stripping down in front of all and Sundry and doing his laundry in the trough . . . but intuition warns that wouldn’t likely be appreciated. The horses least of all, and he frankly cares for their opinions than those of the bandits. 

He can find a creek tomorrow. 

Bereft of anything else to do, Henry begins wandering the camp looking for work. Sunset isn’t for hours yet and as exhausting as today has been, he knows he won’t be able to sleep for a while. And if they’re to be attacked . . . Well having at a chance to rest beforehand would be nice.

After carrying sacks and shooting the most dangerous contraption he’s ever had the displeasure of putting his hands on, Henry saunters down to the main compound. Past the entrance Hans is busy taking the bandits for all they're worth. A bit of an impromptu dice tournament has started, albeit with less than ten total participants. Henry stays to watch for a while, unsure if Hans notices his presence or not. Either way, he slowly remembers that even these games are considered "working" to Hans. Christ, he explained the whole theory some time ago . . .

"Now Henry, my dear squire, let it be said you are incredible in a fight. And if I ever have to speak to an angry peasant I know just the man to come to. However, your proficiency with politics could best be describes--hm. Nothing? Less than nothing? A pile of shite rotting in a bog? A literal representation of setting a lit match next to a barrel of black powder?" 

"Is there a point to this, m'lord?"

"Always questioning your noble master. For shame, Henry. Anyhow, the point is that when meeting new allies a political balance to be made and maintained. Even through the smallest of interactions. Say . . . a game of Farkle. It feels more honest than a one-to-one conversation, but any politician worth their salt will be judging you the entire time. Hell, I'll bet even you peasants do it, even if unknowingly.

"Imagine some stranger blows into the village, trades a few things, then sits down for a game of dice. You'll judge him for how he treated the trader, certainly, but professional politeness doesn't tell you much. You'll naturally judge him more during the game, where he's expected to be himself. Because it's friendly, isn't it? This makes for a high-stakes first impression on both your parts. You'll tell all your peasant friends if he's an arsehole afterwards, and he'll decide if he wants to stay at the inn or leave this shitehole village as soon as possible. So, you have to be careful--not winning so much that the you're accused of cheating, nor losing so much that the traveler thinks you a fool."

Henry spends half an hour or so watching Hans put this into practice. Bandits come and go, leaving with lighter purses and grudgingly more respect for the foppish noble. Henry himself is rather impressed with the display, even tempted to join on a few occasions, but Bull the Blacksmith keeps trying to make meaningful eye contact and Henry's fingers itch. Petzel, the moron, needs more horseshoes anyhow. 

By the time he's done Hans has cleared off to God knows where. Henry decides to go bother Klara in lieu of tracking him down. No need to start any rumors while their standing is still so shaky.

Klara, true to form, assigns him as many cases as she can in good conscience. Scores of bandits were injured in the attack. Henry wonders if he’ll recognize any of them but supposes any he could are thoroughly dead. Any other misgivings he puts from his mind, giving potions, rewrapping bandages, and assigning friends to watch over each other. It's satisfying work (if he stops himself from thinking about how it will all be undone on the 'morrow).

Towards the end he "takes a break," slipping into the cells. Or, tries to. The guards are arseholes about the whole thing, but Henry is technically here on orders from Klara (who is more terrifying than both men combined) so it's not particularly hard to "convince" them.

The prison is as dark and dank as it was this morning. A chill permeates the air (or is that despair?) and Henry swears he can see his own breath. Bartosch sits a few feet away, thoroughly caged. He's a cellmate, some knight Henry barely remembers from the party a day ago. The knight is happier to see him than Bartosch, who has the look of a man who has just realized that he's been tricked. Henry winces. His freedom is rather suspicious, isn't it? 

They talk, awkwardly, as the squire analyzes their wounds. He spends half of it lying like a rug before he can successfully pivot the conversation to anything else. The knight--Hermann?--believes every word. Bartosch does not. "Klara will be by to actually clean you up in a bit. I'm just here to . . . ensure things go smoothly. Eliminate any roadblocks."

"Yes, you are rather good at that." 

. . .

"Thank you, m'lord."

Hermann, bless him, does not pick up on the mood in the slightest. "Your help is appreciated, Henry! We'd certainly rather not sit in these cells BLEEDING TO DEATH while some UNCARING CUNT SHRIVELERS wait for our impending demise!" Henry despairs while Hermann leans forward, switching to an equally obnoxious stage whisper. "Once von Bergow takes care of these bandits we'll put in a good word for you!"

Bartosch snorts, the sound muffled as his head rests on his knees. "I couldn't imagine telling him anything else." 

Another awkward pause and Henry moves to go, more than happy to disentangle himself from this hellish conversation. But Bartosch still has one more thing to ask: "Were you always planning to 'make things go smoothly?'"  His voice is strained, even beyond the understandable frustration. 

"No! No, I wasn't. Things just . . . came up." It's lame, even by Henry's standards, but it's the truth. As coded for present company as he can make it. 

Bartosch looks up, analyzing his response. Henry is reminded of a wounded hawk he once found in the forest. It was an angry, suspicious thing, and didn't want anything to do with him. Though he wasn't the one to have shot it. Unable to get close enough to bandage its injuries, but still feeling pity for a creature meant for the sky but left to die on the ground, he left some meat for it. Whether the creature survived long enough to heal or died on that forest floor, he'll never know. 

Bartosch looks away again. Henry cannot tell if he's been believed, if such a petty thing even matters. Betrayal is betrayal. Though they promised each other nothing, he can't blame the man for feeling tricked. Henry would be furious in his boots. Maybe still is, on the man's behalf. 

He leaves then, trying to put the last few minutes from his mind. What's done is done. 

. . .

Several hours later he’s happy with a job well done. On whom he’s trying not to think about. Klara is similarly pleased, but still too busy to stop now. Henry asks if there’s anything else she can do and Klara waves him off, offering her bed for the night as she “certainly won’t be using it.” Henry grimaces in sympathy and hands her one of the few Cockerel potions he has left. Klara downs it with the same gusto as Godwin chugging a beer.

Convinced he’s done all he can, Henry wanders to Klara’s shack. Or, well, he intends to, but the sunset catches his attention first.

All shades of red, pink, and gold, it’s like God Himself has painted the sky tonight. Henry grimly wonders if this is to be a last present before their deaths or a sign that they’ll actually survive the ‘morrow. He climbs the ramparts anyway, trying to get a look unhindered by wood and stone.

Some feet up the view is just as gorgeous, though now he notices the clouds adding texture to this grand portrait. He stands there watching, lost admiration, until the sun is nearly down. Little is left but some streaks of blood on the horizon. A smattering of stars begin to appear just as Henry moves to leave, eyes still trained on the Heavens.

 A harsh whisper stops him.

“Pssst. Henry! Over here!” Hans waves him down the steps, furtively checking their surroundings. “Kurva, I’ve been looking for you for hours! I’d ask where the hell you went, but it’s probably everywhere.” 

Henry chuckles before raising an inquisitive eyebrow. “And what emergency transpired while I was away, Sir Hans, that forced you to hunt for me? Did you run out of wine? One of the bandits forget to fluff the pillows in your private room? Aethon have the shits again?” 

“Christ no! Jesus Henry, the places your mind goes to.” Hans makes an expression so disgusted you’d think Henry had just brought up the time they caught Hanush walking out of the bathhouse. Half naked. “And no, it’s nothing so devastatingly important as the condition of my pillows or empty cup (you arse). I just. Well. You know . . .” Capon trails off with an uncomfortable cough, gazing drifting down to the vague direction of Henry’s boots. But, unfortunately for the both of them, he very much does not know. 

Henry raises what he hopes is a meaningful eyebrow. Hans neglects to respond, looking more awkward by the minute. “I–I thought . . . oh, never mind. It’s not the time. I’ll just–” Hans begins to leave, half-hearted excuses tripping from his tongue. 

“It’s just that tomorrow might be our last? For the third time this week?” Hans’ shoulders drop a little, but not completely. He looks relieved, though whether it’s because Henry has guessed correctly or handed the man an excuse, he is unsure. It ferries the conversation along some, though. 

“. . . Aye. That. Never seems to end, does it? One thing after another, always one more battle before we can finally go back to Rattay . . .” Henry lets his lord ramble while herding the man to Klara’s hut. It’s blessedly empty of both prying eyes and wounded, featuring a straw bed and a loft. Hans continues to talk while his squire investigates, suddenly pivoting in a more cheerful direction: “But this should do it! So long as we survive this one last trial, we’ll be gone. Von Bergow’s obviously declined our letter and Žižka seems to have things well in hand, so we should be free to fuck off right back to home. Just. One more . . .” 

It’s uncertain whether Hans is trying to rally himself or Henry. Though thoroughly unsuccessful, the thought is appreciated. 

It also gives the squire an opening to start a conversation he’s been avoiding for the past five hours: “Hans.” The man turns, wincing. 

“. . . Yes, Henry? Kurva, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Is there some lonesome spectre in this cabin that’s managed to hide from me?” 

Only the one I’m looking at right now. 

“Do you trust Žižka?” 

“Uh. Huh. That’s not the question I was expecting. Well, no? Obviously not? We agreed to a truce less than twelve hours ago. And he keeps looking at me like a man drowning in debt looks at a sack of Groschen! So no, not in the slightest.” A pause, as Hans considers. “I assume you don’t as well, lest we wouldn’t be having this little talk.” Eyes narrow as the man tries to calculate the trajectory of this conversation. 

“No. I don’t.”

 “Then you haven’t gone completely mad. But that doesn’t answer my question, now does it? We’ve little time left in the day for beating about the bush, so what are you after, Henry?” 

“Žižka claims he’s on our side but I don’t want to wake up and find out you’ve been taken for ransom again. So long as we’re stuck here, and I’m still sworn to be your bodyguard, I’m not going to be comfortable with you sleeping alone.” 

If Hans were a worse diplomat Henry suspects his jaw would be on the floor. Instead, the only sign of his surprise is a half step backwards and pupils blown to black. (But it’s dark, perhaps his eyes were always like that . . .) Caught off guard, but rarely without a response, Capon quickly collects himself. In the dim light, it’s hard to see him steadily turning red, though his voice never wavers. 

“Well. I suppose I can see the sense in that.” Surprisingly little protest to the proposal. “But with one caveat–” That’s more like it. “--Which is that I don’t feel safe with you sleeping on the floor, so far away.” ??? “So. In the name of satisfying our collective paranoia, I propose we sleep in the same bed tonight.” ??!??! “The one in this shack will do, as there’s another just on top of it, so if anyone asks any questions or makes any insinuations we’ll have an easy excuse . . . Not, of course, that we would need an excuse. As nothing will be happening, of course, but people talk and I’m sure you can imagine the conclusions a camp of gossipy bandits will jump to–-” 

“--It sounds like a fine idea to me.” Henry’s mouth answers before his head can catch up with what exactly is happening here. 

“Good! Very good! Now, as it’s already rather late, we should, ahem, get to. Doing. That. Which we are currently discussing.” Despite the affectation of confidence, Hans proceeds to do absolutely nothing. Probably waiting on Henry to make the first move. 

Jesus. The blind leading the blind, they are. 

They sort of stand in place, awkwardly looking at the floor, while Henry scrambles to get his thoughts in a row. Technically this would not be the first time he slept in the same bed as his lord. So really, how terrible could this be? The memory comes to mind, unbidden: 

Some months ago, while they were still coming to terms with being friends, a cold snap had taken them by surprise. Starting a fire would have lit a beacon for the Cumans in the area, which meant the two would have to spend the rest of the night shivering in their bedrolls. 

Henry remembers looking at Capon’s back, watching his shoulders hunch under the blanket. Uneven plumes of frozen breath indicate that the man is still awake, just as miserable as Henry. 

In Skalitz, it had been second nature to curl together during the winter. Touch was not in short supply, nor something to be hoarded or ashamed of. They were too poor for that sort of snobbery.  

Hans is different. Raised different, by a people and a culture Henry simply cannot fathom. Burdened with responsibility and expectations and told never, ever lean on anyone else. Hell, when Henry first offered to move closer, Hans had laughed him off. Like it was a joke. Henry had been so utterly baffled that he hadn't pressed the issue, simply falling into contemplative silence. 

Now he's too cold to care. 

“Shove me off if you want, but I don’t think either of us wants to freeze to death tonight.” 

Hans gives a token protest, shoulders stiff as the frozen ground beneath them. But he folds like laundry when Henry throws an arm over his stomach, pulling the idiot’s back into his chest. (Jesus Christ, his skin is like ice.) Though, for the moment that Hans stops breathing, Henry worries he’s actually overstepped this time--Not just ignored some stupid noble shite but made Capon genuinely uncomfortable. 

Then something in Hans settles. A lifetime of bravado is pushed aside as he makes a decision, pulling Henry’s arms tighter with frosted white fingers. Permission granted, Henry rearranges their things until the two are sharing both bedrolls and pillows, blankets stacked on top of each other.  

They’re unconscious in minutes. 

Henry realizes he stripped out of his armor when he comes back to the present. Hans has followed suit, still somewhat behind though he has less to wrestle with. Henry helps him out of the chain shirt, letting it down to the floor with a clattering thud. He sorts out their shite, putting it into appropriate piles, while Hans climbs into bed. 

Henry eyes the mattress from his corner of the room–-It’s not much larger than their bedrolls, but the hay stuffing looks fresh. A few patched blankets lay on top, blessedly clean despite the shack’s latest occupants. Down to his shirt and braies, Henry climbs in after his lord. 

It’s an awkward fit, leaving Hans more-or-less squished into the wall. For all that he’s the tallest Henry is by far the widest. This leaves them in the rather awkward position of trying to find a comfortable sleeping arrangement while trying to give the other as much room as possible–Back-to-back and Henry will have to deal with feeling Capon’s arse the entire night; side-to-side will end with Hans partially laying on Henry’s chest; and spooning . . . Well. Jesus. If either of them were to wake up excited . . .

A chill blows through the slats in the cabin and rain begins to patter on the roof.  Even while buried under multiple blankets Hans can’t repress a shiver. Ultimately, the chattering of teeth makes Henry’s decision for him. 

“Hans.” Whispering seems natural when they’re this close. 

“God’s blood. What is it? Can’t you let a man die of cold in peace? Jesus, we should have just gone up to my quarters, damn the consequences. They’d only find out if they tried to kill us anyhow–” Hans continues grumbling into his pillow, not deigning to look up from his misery. 

Henry rolls his eyes in response, lightly tugging on the dramatic idiot’s shirtsleeve. “If it would please his ladyship to roll the fuck over–” 

“--Oh fuck off–” Hans hides a chuckle behind mock reproach. 

“--I would be more than happy to keep his frail, fainting countenance safe from the ravages of Nebakov summer–”

“Pffft. Henry of Skalitz you gigantic pile of shite.” Hans’ shoulders shake as he buries silent laughter into the mattress. “You festering arsehole. How many times do I have to say that I am a noble before it gets through your thick, peasant skull? ” 

“I don’t know, m’lord. How many more times do you plan on getting shot in the arse and forcing me to carry you like a blushing bride ‘cross the battlefield?”

“You cunt. I was shot in the thigh–!” 

The tension dissipates as they return to their usual jesting. With Hans distracted it’s not hard to put an arm around his shoulder and “nudge” his upper body into Henry’s chest. (Though he senses that the dagger under the pillow is being politely ignored.) 

Worries banished, they fall asleep to the sound of their own quiet bickering.

Chapter Text

Black upends Henry’s senses, blanketing them as dreams often do. Taste, smell, sound--all is pushed to the side so sight might be sharpened. Shadows cradle his face like Ma’s hands once did and ruffle his hair as Pa often would. There’s a warmth in this darkness. A familiarity he hasn’t felt in months.  

He closes his eyes and lets the moment of peace wash over him. Ready to spiral more into the comforting gloom, Henry startles when breath puffs over his face. Ma stares back him, eyes warm as her hands, color slowly leaking into her features. Pa chuckles from behind, the sound of the forge coming into hazy focus.  

Then, between one blink and the next, Skalitz burns. And his parents burn with it. Henry watches in agonizing detail as the skin is torched from Ma's face. Hears Pa’s lungs choke in the thickening smoke. Feels the hands on his cheeks turn to ash. Fire licks at his beard and singes his skin down to the bone but of what concern is that while he watching his parents die.

Again.

Von Aulitz appears from the wreckage, setting the ground alight with his every step. Istvan is not far behind, cackling under his breath as Radzig’s sword shines at his belt. Martin staggers into view from behind, wreathed in a blinding wall of fire but still moving to fight. Ma’s hands burn where they clutch Henry’s shoulders, trying to pull him down, to protect him from the sight of the inevitable.  

Unfortunately, she’s too late. The last thing Henry sees before his eyes turn to ash is his Pa being decapitated as Radzig’s head swings from Aulitz’s belt.

Henry awakens with a start to the sound of men yelling. Boots pound in time to clanking armor, the whole uproar urgently running by.

No fire in the cabin. No smoke to choke him to death. No bodies littering the ground.

Thank Christ.

Still, Hans is gone, his equipment missing from yesterday’s pile.

Is he damned if he admits to feeling relieved?

Henry collects himself, shucking on what he can in the little time he has left to do so. If the enemy hasn’t yet breached the walls they’re going to want to. Getting all of his shite on alone is always a pain, though, and the calls to help set up barricades have nearly ceased by the point he’s able to leave.

Able to see the urgency for himself, Henry is starting to become concerned. Certainly, they expected a force to arrive but what has the captain blustering so? And where the hell is Hans?

Climbing the ramparts for a better look, Henry finds nothing but dread.

A force has arrived, alright. Jesus Christ a force has arrived. Off on the side Hans, Godwin, and Žižka grimly peer down, talking amongst themselves.

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

Hans shrugs, looking grim, “Judging by the tower crest on their banners? Prague militia. As for where they came from? It seems von Bergow had more men in reserve than he led us to believe.”

God in Heaven. That’s an understatement—it looks like they recruited every man in fucking Prague. Jesus. And to make matters worse, lo and behold, fucking Aulitz has joined the battle. The dream suddenly haunts him. If his parents were not already dead, would Henry go running back to check? Why does a terrible reinterpretation of the past feel so much like prophecy? What else has he left to lose?

Henry watches the nobles do their back-and-forth shite—the call for surrender, the insults, the inevitable declaration that they will go down fighting—and ignores it. He's busy counting archers, trying to estimate the number of men they're about to battle--All until Istvan addresses him—them—directly.

Ultimately, it’s less the taunts and more the sight of his father's fucking sword that Henry takes exception to. Violent, blood thirsty exception.

“I’m never running from that godless whoreson again. Not ever, again.”

Istvan grins as sun rays bounce off the pommel, like the light of God has shined upon the last piece of Martin Henry will ever hold. The last request his father gave him.

So be it if this is their last stand. So long as Henry gets one last fucking shot at Istvan.

Hans nods like he understands, and maybe he does. Maybe the boy who's never been enough knows a crumb of what Henry feels, looking down at his greatest mistake. 

His lord refuses the call to surrender while Žižka rallies the troops. The battle is on—a fight they truly have not a hope of winning. Henry considers letting one of the ladders up so he can beat the man responsible and then climb down the side of the castle. If he’s already to die, may as well while charging for Istvan.

Too busy keeping the front lines from slaughtering them all, Henry mourns not even being able to make a warning shot. There Istvan sits, so smug and so close and so fucking far.

From there Henry’s occupied throwing rocks on men’s heads. Once upon a time he would have winced at the crunch. Would have despised the pileup of bodies and squelch of bloody boots. Now all he can do is fantasize about doing the same to Istvan.

While putting his blade through a man’s neck Henry considers the cold comfort of knowing that if he is to die, it will be with Hans. If there is a Heaven, if they’re to spend their eternities having lived as failures, he will ensure his lord is never lonely again. Hans' loyalty has earned that, at least. If not more. 

Godwin stabs a man in the liver and he goes down with a scream. Žižka beats a man to death while he moans a final prayer. Henry notices none of this, too busy planning Istvan’s final moments.

Perhaps it’s foolishness, imagining what he could do while the danger of now is still trying to kill him. But the clock ticks down with every swipe of the sword—and Henry can feel himself tiring, knows he can’t go on forever. That he will become exhausted, eventually, and long before von Bergow runs out of men. Their fates are to be overwhelmed and executed on the spot or killed in action. It is only a matter of time. And for as angry as Henry is, for how much he wants his revenge, he knows he will not get it this day.

Pain radiates down the squire’s side as he wards off another attack. Will that damned stab wound never heal? Hans’ second patch job will only hold for so long. Damn it.

Henry dutifully fights on even as they’re driven into the tower. Even with the door barricaded things are looking grim. A fair few of them are still standing (including Hans, thank Christ) but they’re little compared to the next wave of men headed up.

Hiding up here gives everyone a chance to catch their breath, at least. Resting leads to thinking leads to regretting, though, and soon Žižka is stuck trying to soothe frayed nerves.

“They’ll try to parlay, just you watch.”

Henry should probably be ashamed of doubting the Good Lord’s intentions, but nothing about his life these past few months has been that simple. (When did killing a dozen men begin to qualify as simple?)

Godwin expresses a similar sentiment when he peers through the window, “Don’t be so sure about that.” Grim acceptance paints his voice, but Henry only has eyes for Capon, equally confused as he.

“What the fuck is that?”

They all begin to step back, instinctively knowing the danger despite being unable to comprehend it. Henry watches from the corner of his eye as various states of panic begin to dawn on the men. Even Žižka, jaw hanging low in surprise.

There is no escape. They’ve trapped themselves in this tower and now whatever God or the Devil has planned for them is about to rain upon their heads. Fear stirs in Henry’s gut, but most of it is for Capon. The rest is frustration, mixed with anger at the fact he’ll die here, having never retrieved his father’s blade. He’s too numb to feel much of anything else. Perhaps it’s for the best, so as he doesn’t meet the Almighty on the tail end of a scream.

“FIRE!”

There’s bare enough time to comprehend the command before everything explodes.

The front window bursts in a shower of splinters and fury.

Henry is knocked out on the spot.

. . .

He comes awake at some point, buried under the collapsed roof. Every limb is made of lead. He can feel too much and not at all and his head is ringing like a bell welcoming him to the gates of Hell. Blood is sticky under his gloves and the pool slowly grows as he tries to regain his bearings. He doesn't know who it belongs to. At least until he cranes his neck upwards. 

Oh.

Impaled one on top of each other, there are his parents, pierced by a support beam. The wooden stake entrapping ends just to the left of his gut. Ma reaches out, coughing weakly as strength begins to leave her. Pa is already dead. 

Henry blinks and they disappear. The pool of blood underneath him stays. 

He's too tired to care. 

After all, this is just his life now. 

But he's still breathing. And so long as Henry is still alive he has work to do. Istvan. Hans. Henry sweeps a bleary gaze over the scene before him:

The tower has collapsed around them. Everyone is stuck under something. Those that aren’t are unconscious (or dead, more likely). Groans emanate from all corners of the room. Thew tower creaks as if threatening to crumple out from under them. 

Peering up, Henry is forced to squint as light cheerily shines upon their soon-to-be corpses. How is it still early morning? Kurva. 

Belatedly, he realizes that Hans has been calling out during this examination. He's been begging for help, near on the edge of tears. Ego left for dead with the fallen ceiling, he's obviously scared to death. Blood slicks the floor underneath him. (Underneath everyone. It will surely soak the floorboards and leave this damned place forever cursed.)

Henry’s eyes roll in his skull as he tries to take a better look, to assess the damage. It takes minutes, almost, to focus his vision. Minutes he doesn't have, while red stains his hoes and all but glues him to the floor. Finally victorious, Henry’s last few moments of consciousness are spent reaching toward his lord. The man doesn't see, too far away. Too pinned by panic and the crossbeam alike. Too betrayed by the abrupt ending of the fairy tale they'll never get to live out.

“. . . Hans . . . I’m coming . . .”