Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The warm afternoon sun was slowly working it’s way over the horizon. A gentle autumn breeze was mellowing down the still lingering summer heat.

Henry sat hunched over the cluttered workbench like a monk at prayer, except his scripture was a dented gauntlet, and his hymns were the steady clang of the hammer and the calm, rhythmical whistling melody he enjoyed to accompany his work with. A patch of chainmail soaked in vinegar-water nearby, hissing softly when he plunged his wire brush into it. Bits of rust flew like sparks from a fire, landing on his tunic, like small freckles, as he worked over the weather worn metal. His sleeves were rolled, his brow glistened, and the smell of oil and old leather clung to him like the slight layer of sweat on his neck.

It was honest work. Quiet work.

Which was precisely why young Heinrich had decided to intrude upon it.

He sat on the nearby bench, legs dangling off the edge, one boot tapping a slow, uncertain rhythm. His doublet was far too fine for the forge, all embroidered cuffs and pearly buttons, and it clashed magnificently with the soot-streaked man besides him.
His favourite hat, some floppy feathered monstrosity, had been tossed aside. His expression was fixed in that dramatic pout unique to boys of noble birth who weren’t quite sure what to do with themselves when they weren’t being the center of attention.
In all this, he reminded Henry way too much of his father, causing him a fond smile to creep onto his face.

The boy said nothing.

Though, Henry noted without looking up, a certain tension in his silence. Something was eating at him.

Usually, Heinrich voiced his opinions about everything. How swords were too heavy, how horses smelled, how hot the sun was, how deeply dull it was to be alive and twelve. Today, though, he had floated into the smithy like a cloud of perfume and expensive boredom, and had yet to say a word.

Henry didn't press. He silently dipped a rag into the oil, and began massaging it into the leather straps of the gauntlet. The clink and shuffle of his work filled the air like an old, familiar song.

He'd learned by now that Heinrich, at the start of an age, where boys who didn’t want to be treated like boys, needed a bit of room to sidle up to their troubles sideways.

It had only been a matter of time, until Heinrich hesitantly spoke up.

“…Do you think girls prefer poets or swordsmen?”

Henry paused. Blinked at the gauntlet, collecting his thoughts. Then he glanced up, catching the boy's sideways stare, half-buried in tousled blond hair and noble pride.

He gave a slow shrug, letting the pause hang just long enough to make the boy’s fingers twitch nervously.

“Well,” Henry started tentatively, it wasn‘t like he’d be the expert on gaining a woman’s heart, “depends whether the girl's the sort who wants her heart wooed or her father threatened.”, he joked half-heartedly.

A beat of silence.

Henry huffed a small laugh, this seemed to turn into a more serious conversation. He put down his work, cleaning his hands roughly on a piece of cloth and turned towards the boy.

„It really depends on the girl, I’d say.“, the boy didn’t return Henry’s gaze. Though, he also didn’t say anything to interrupt him, so Henry continued.
„Some girls prefer poems, kind, heartfelt words. And others prefer someone who’s a strong swordsman, galant and able to protect them.“

“And…How do you know?”

“Know what?”

“If a girl likes you.”
His fingers toyed with a loose thread on his cuff, twisting and untwisting it.

Henry didn’t answer at once. He returned his attention to the gauntlet, running his hand over the dent in its curve, as though the silence itself was part of the answer.

“You don’t,” he said finally. “Not at first.”

Heinrich frowned, disappointed. “That’s not helpful.”

Henry shrugged. “It’s true, though. You can’t read a person like a signpost. You have to get to know them, learn, like anything worth knowing. You listen. You pay attention. You find out what makes her laugh, what makes her go quiet. What matters to her.”

“That sounds like it takes forever.”

„The finest things tend to take time. The best smith work, is the one carefully and patiently forged.“

There was a pause. Heinrich picked up his discarded hat and turned it in his hands, quieter now.

„And if she doesn’t like you?“

Henry leaned his arms on the table, voice steady.

“Look, if you want to know if a girl likes you, you’ve got to show her who you are. Not what you think she wants. You don’t win her over with poetry you don’t understand or a sword you can’t lift. You talk to her. Ask about the things she likes. Not to impress her, just to know her.”

Heinrich huffed. “But what if she’s not interested?”

“Then she’s not the girl for you.”

“I was hoping for something more dramatic.”, he groaned frustrated.

Henry smirked. This could have easily come out of someone else’s mouth. So very familiar to him.

“Suppose I do ask her what she likes,” Heinrich said after a pause. “What if she says something strange? Like… turnips.”

Henry snorted. “Then you ask her why she likes turnips.”

“And what if she says ‘falconry’?”

Henry grinned. “Then you’d best start reading about birds, if you want to have something to talk with her about.”

“What if she doesn’t want to talk to me at all?”

Henry glanced up. “Then you give her a reason to.”

Heinrich raised a brow. “Like what? A sonnet?”

“No.” Henry gave him a pointed look. “Something simple. Something kind. Something that’ll make her smile. Like flowers.”

Heinrich blinked. “Flowers?”

“Aye. They still work, last I checked.”

“Father said that’s something peasants did when they had no coin for a gift.”

Henry leaned back a bit, stretching out his shoulders. “And yet it works, doesn’t it? You don’t need to come bearing jewels or some poor bard you’ve paid to rhyme ‘moon’ with ‘June.’ You want to talk to her? Bring her something beautiful, something put time and thought into. It says enough.”

“But what if she doesn’t like the flowers?”

“Then she’ll still like that you thought of her.”

Heinrich was quiet for a moment, visibly weighing the thought. “Do I just… hand them to her?”

“Well, don’t throw them at her. And don’t go flinging petals dramatically across the courtyard.”

„I’m not my father.“

Henry chuckled.

„And then? What am I supposed to even say?“

„Don’t think too hard about it. Be honest. Tell her what caught your eye about her, tell her she interests you. If she smiles, that’s your opening. Ask her something real. Not about the weather. Something that makes her talk.”

Heinrich tilted his head. “Like what?”

“Ask her the last thing that made her laugh. Or the most ridiculous thing she’s ever done in court. Or… if she could be anywhere in the world, where she’d go.”

Heinrich blinked again, this time more slowly, like he hadn’t expected something so… straightforward.

“…That’s actually not bad.”

Henry smirked without looking up. “I have my moments.”

“You ought to write a book.”

Henry picked up the wirebrush again. “And you ought to go pick some damn flowers.”

Heinrich stood slowly, brushing imaginary dust off his doublet. “You’re sure this works?”

“No. But it’s better than sitting here sulking about theoretical conversations.”

“…All right,” Heinrich said, tugging his hat back on. “But if I come back with a crushed ego, I’m totally blaming your judgement.”

Henry raised a hand in mock salute. “As your humble servant, m’lord, I shall bear the full weight of your romantic catastrophe with all due shame. I’ll even fetch the bandages for your pride and a eulogy for your dignity. Shall I prepare a grave for it behind the stables?“

Heinrich narrowed his eyes at Henry’s bow, lips twitching despite himself.

“You’re impossible, Uncle Henry.“

Henry gave a lopsided grin.

Heinrich turned as if to go, then hesitated. His voice came a little quieter, less wrapped in performance.
„But… thank you.“, he went for the trodded out garden path, trying not to look like he was hurrying.

Henry watched him go with a small smile, then went back to work.

***

Heinrich squatted awkwardly by the garden wall, squinting at a patch of wildflowers that had invaded the more “proper” landscaping like cheerful rebels.

A few scraggly cornflowers nodding in the breeze. They looked small and rather… underwhelming.

He leaned down, plucked one stem, held it up, and immediately second-guessed everything. They weren’t roses. They weren’t arranged. They were just… wild.

“What do you got there?,” came his mother’s voice behind him.

He yelped and nearly dropped it.

“Mother!” he said, quickly standing up, the stem still clutched in his hand. “You startled me.”

Jitka gave him a mild look, hands tucked into the sleeves of her robe. “I was just taking a walk. Saw you crouching in the weeds like a suspicious little rabbit.”

“I wasn’t crouching,” he muttered, then glanced at the flower in his hand. After a brief internal struggle, he held it up. “Would you… like these? Do you think they’re nice?”

Jitka stepped closer and looked at the little flower he’d gathered, her brow rising ever so slightly, realization creeping in.

“Well,” she said diplomatically, “it‘s sweet. But cultivated roses are much prettier. Fuller. More refined.”

Heinrich blinked. “Oh.”

Jitka gave him a knowing side-glance, but said nothing. She simply turned and walked on, humming faintly to herself.

Heinrich’s eyes wandered to the flower in his hand and then to the beautiful red roses blooming in well cared for bushes.

***

The door to his father’s study was half-open, the late light slanting through the tall windows and catching on the edges of books, parchment, and glass. Heinrich paused in the corridor.

He hadn’t meant to stop. Just passing by.

But then he saw them.

A small bundle of wildflowers, a colorful mix of reds and yellows, the blue of a cornflower or two, resting on the edge of the desk beside a neatly folded letter and his father’s inkwell.

Not arranged. Not trimmed. Just laid there, carelessly, like someone hadn’t quite decided what to do with them yet, or carefully, placed there with purpose and intend, he couldn’t tell.

He stepped in without thinking, drawn to them. Familiar. The kind that grew in the garden, by the walls, between the stones.

The kind he had thought to pick, not long ago.

He stared at them a moment, then smiled, puzzled, faintly amused. He imagined his father giving them to his mother with a gallant smile and some terribly charming line. That would be just like Hans Capon.

But he hesitated.

His parents… they weren’t romantic. Not in the flowers-and-verses sort of way, that he had read about in the ballads and sonnets. They were fond of each other, certainly respectful, but not the kind of couple to get tangled up in grand gestures. At least not since he could think and remember.

But maybe that was how things went, once you married a lady you fancied. Maybe the butterflies, Heinrich felt now, would fade and leave warmth and laughter. He wouldn’t hate that.

Had his father also gotten advice? On how to put a smile on the face of the fair lady, who holds your heart?

For the flash of a moment, passing as quickly as it came, a different image came to his mind.

Of the long hours Uncle Henry and Father spent in conversation, heads bent close over maps and wine and stories. The way their voices softened sometimes when they didn’t notice Heinrich passing by. His father’s hand on Uncle Henry’s leg, an exchange of smiles that sparked something in their eyes, that Heinrich didn’t know where to place.

He never said anything about it. He didn’t know what it meant.

Still, he looked down at the wildflowers again, then gave a quiet little huff of a laugh.

“She doesn’t even like wildflowers,” he murmured aloud, more to the empty room than to anyone else.

He smiled as he imagined his, sometimes embarrassingly theatrical, father, who could make ordering wine sound like a court proclamation, hand this simple unrefined bouquet to his classy mother.
She’d surely be grateful nonetheless, even if she didn’t like these kind of flowers, like Uncle Henry had said.

He wondered if his father had picked them himself. Had he hunched down to cut them? His father who wouldn’t get his hands dirty unless he’d do so while holding a sword?

Lost in thoughts, he looked at the flowers for some time. But he didn’t touch them. Just left them there, on the desk.

Let them mean what they would.

And when he turned to go, there was still that smile tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth, not knowing, not sure, but somehow… glad.

Chapter Text

The wind hit them before the water even came into view, crisp and tangy, not like the clean breezes of Rattay or the still air of Pirkstein‘s stone halls. It felt heavier. Filling their lungs with brine and leaving a salty taste on their lips.

Hans walked ahead, his boots crunching through the pale sand, down treaded out paths, past dried reeds. He moved slowly at first, uncertainty in his step. Expectations meeting reality.

Like a gentle invitation, a soft nudge, the wind threaded through his bright hair, tugged at his travel worn coat.

The trees had long since thinned behind them, giving way to a stretch of coarse bushes and dry, tall grasses on sandy dunes.

Henry followed diligently, their feet trudging with unfamiliar effort up the last rise of the dunes.

And finally, the sea unfolded before them. Vast, deep and dark, endless under a cloudy silver sky, waves rolling onto the shore like a breathing creature.

Hans didn’t speak. He simply stood, taking in the scenery before him. His eyes wide, his mouth slightly open, and it was one of the rare moments, the honest ones, were no cleverness or pride lined his face. Just awe. Pure and wordless.

Henry stopped a few paces behind, at a distance, but still close enough. A measure they had grown accustomed to, the difficult balance between propriety and knowing the other was there, feeling them near by.

It wasn’t the sea that held his gaze.

It was Hans, his windtussled hair gleaming gold and silver streaked with each movement, taking up all of his attention.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He didn’t move. Just stood there, his cloak snapping behind him.

His breath left him in a soft sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Something in between.

Then he laughed. Full, warm, and disbelieving. He stepped forward. First step cautiously, like doubting the ground would hold. Then his steps grew quicker, certain, picking up speed.

The grass gave way to coarse sand, littered with stones, dry pieces of plant and animal life, until it turned to damp sand. Along his rush, his boots were unceremoniously discarded.

“Hans,” Henry called, more out of habit than worry. A small laugh leaving his curled lips.

But Hans didn’t answer. He was already walking into the shallows, the surf foaming around his bare feet.

The cold, wet bite on his skin made him hiss through his teeth, but didn’t stop his feet from moving, kicking up splashes of water.

He only grinned wider, eyes bright, shoulders shaking with another quiet laugh.

He turned, half-shouting against the wind, holding his hair out of his face. “It’s cold!”

“You don’t say,” Henry called back, smiling despite himself.

Slowly, but steadily, he followed, shortly stopping to pick up his lord’s boots. At a save distance from the lapping water, where the sand turned firmer again, he came to a final halt.

Henry watched, arms folded loosely in front of him, boots dangling from his casual grip. He could feel the wind tug at his cloak, at his hair, but he hardly noticed. All he saw was Hans, his Lord, his Love, bare feet sinking into wet sand, soaked hems clinging to his legs, cheeks flushed, eyes shining like a boy again.

Henry had seen many sides of Hans through the years. Angry. Triumphant. Bitter. Drunk. Proud. Happy and loved. And broken. But this… this was above it all. This was free. He felt an ache in his chest. He knew how most precious this feeling was to Hans. He yearned to capture this moment, never wanting the pure joy on his face to fade again.

After a moment Hans came back toward him, not hurrying, feet sloshing through the shallow water. He carried a small shell between his fingers, turning it over like something invaluable.

Henry looked at the shell, looked at him again. The lines at his eyes, the ashen-grey at his temples and in strains shimmering in his beard, not unlike the ones painting his own features in the signs of age, that had slowly crept in. Unnoticed until they had left their striking marks, only then feeling how quickly time had passed them by.

Yet the awe, the unchanged shining blue eyes, revealing the boy still somewhere in the man, made him smile.

„Who would have thought?“

Henry chuckled. „What? That’d we’d make it here in one piece? That it’d be… like this?“

Hans shook his head slightly, eyes darting, trying to find the words, the thoughts. He shrugged halfheartedly.

„Yes- No… I mean, all of it kinda. It’s just so..“, his voice trailing off as he turned back, facing the waterfront again.

„It‘s incredible. It’s real.“, he whispered.

“I thought it would smell worse,” Hans continued after a reminiscing pause, eyes still on the water, a frown forming in his brow. “And louder. Or maybe I just imagined it all wrong.”

“You imagined it for decades,” Henry said, walking to his side. “That’s a long time to form a certain picture.”

They stood together in the wind. Their shoulders nearly brushing, their hands finding each other on their own accord, fingers intertwining. The waves rolled in and out, indifferent to time or it’s beholders.

Hans inhaled deeply and let it out in a long breath.

Henry gently squeezed his hand.

“I’m not sure what I expected. But it’s more.” He turned, something else underlining the shine in his eyes, unguarded, wonder maybe, or peace.

Behind them, gulls wheeled and cried. Before them, the sea breathed in and out.

They stood like that, quiet, content, side by side, as the wind danced around them and the waves rolled on, steady and soft and endless.

Hans lifted their hands, turning them so Henry’s palm was facing upwards. He gently freed himself from his grip, uncurling Henry’s fingers.

A soft press, before he closed Henry’s hand again, holding it fondly between his own.

Ridged edges, curved, cool, delicate. The seashell.

Henry’s smile widened, warmth spreading in his chest as he saw it mirrored in Hans’s.

The years had worked at them, like a patient sculptor, each moment a careful chisel stroke, shaping their bond, the easy closeness between them, the quiet language they’d always spoken without needing to voice it.

They drew closer, foreheads touching, a soft brush of their noses. Lips finding each other in a soft touch, a tender kiss.

Henry felt the edges of the shell dig into his palm, but wouldn’t wish for Hans to let go of his hand. His own dropping the boots and rising to Hans’s jaw. Fingertips grazing over the coarse hair, until finding a resting place right at the edge. Cupping his face, tilting it just enough to gain easier access and Hans melted into it, following his touch in comfortable routine.

No fiery passion hurrying them on, just the cozy warmth of a steady flame, that had never gone out.

When their lips parted, their gazes lingered. Familiar. Reverent. Not wanting to move on from this moment, letting it stay with them for a little longer. Breathing the same air, basking in their closeness.

The corner of Hans’s mouth twitched, turning into something else. The gentle smile colouring with mischief.

He grabbed Henry by the wrist and started stepping back, pulling Henry with him.

„Hans“, Henry sighed in complaint, brow furrowed, though the smile didn’t leave his lips. He could have easily stood his ground, if he so had wanted to, but he let himself reluctantly be dragged.

„Don’t be a killjoy, Henry. You can’t really come here and not even dip a small toe in. Am not asking you to take a dive.“

Henry grunted, but got rid of his boots before reaching the edge of the waves.

The water swirled around their calves, cool and bracing. Henry let out a shuddering breath.

“God, this is freezing.”

„Told you so, you oaf!“, Hans laughed.

Henry’s feet moved before he could think better of it, splashing his Lord in retaliation at the insult, earning him an exasperated laugh.

And just like that, the years melted. Hans kicked a spray of water back at him, and Henry responded likewise, moving with surprising speed for someone who groaned when he stood up too fast. The splashing was awkward, clumsy, and full of laughter, two graying men in the surf, in sea-soaked garments, not caring about all else they usually had to worry about.

Hans’s next step sent a wave straight towards Henry’s midth, but instead he surged forward in retaliation. Only to misjudge the pull of the tide. His foot slipped on the slick sand, and with a startled grunt, he crashed into Hans.

They collided shoulder to chest, laughter cutting off in a tangled breath as they both staggered. Hans grabbed Henry’s arms, Henry clutched at Hans’s waist. For a moment, they tottered like ship masts in a storm, then stilled, braced against each other.

Their laughter fizzled into quiet. Close now, breath warm between them, the slap of the waves muffled by the sudden thundering hush that filled Henry’s ears. Hans’s hair was plastered wet to his forehead, his beard shining with moisture, his expression soft around the eyes.

Henry reached to brush the stray hair gently out of his face, fingers trailing across his cheek, cupping the side of his face. Hans leaned into the touch as Henry caressed his cheekbone. A contrast of rough, callouses, moving ever so softly.

And then he shifted closer, or maybe Hans did. It didn’t matter who moved first. Their lips met in a gentle touch, slow and steady. The kiss felt warm against the wind, which cooled the stray droplets on their faces.

It tasted sweet like belonging, deep and whole, with the quiet certainty of being known and wanted.

Hans’s hand settled around Henry’s waist, pulling him close. Heat rising between them, where their bodies pressed together.

They bumped noses, soft strokes, their beards scraped together, salty droplets on their lips, and Hans huffed out a breathless laugh against Henry’s mouth.

“It’s salty,” he murmured, voice rough with salt and feeling.

Henry pulled back an inch, blinking. “Is it the sea, or is that just your mouth?”

Hans smirked. “Could be both.”

They kissed again, while the water lapped at their knees and the sky above blurred at the edges. Neither of them cared that their hoses were drenched, their coats heavy with brine, or what would be waiting for them.

This moment was everything.

***

It was quiet in Pierkstein’s halls. The evening hours had settled in, the servants had finished their busywork and retreated to their chambers and homes. Only a few guards stayed stationed as night watch. Henry knew most of them by name, greeting them with a polite nod, as he passed them by in the dark corridors.

It had been, an uneventful, but long day again. His joints protested and his shoulder ached for rest. He didn’t feel old yet, but his body started to remind him after days like these, that the years started to take it’s toll on his body, demanding him to step down from time to time.

So he longed for the softness of the bedding that awaited him, the warm embrace he would get to settle into as he’d drift of to sleep.

But something caught his eye, as he walked through the torch lit way. In one particular writing room was still the typical flickering light of an oillamp.

He stopped, hearing the familiar scratch of the quill bringing ink onto paper. As he stepped closer, he saw a just as familiar figure, hunched over papers, much likely for hours.

His knuckles tapped gently on the slightly open door, more a courtesy, making himself known, than a question to be allowed access.

„Am I disturbing you?” Henry asked. The other lifting his head, eyes trimmed red, strained by the focused work in dim light.

“Not at all,” answered his ward, his face turning from surprise to comfort, as he recognised the interruptor.
“Sit.” His hand pointed openly to a chair half across him.

Henry came closer, taking the offered up seat. His eyes darted over the strewn out papers and books on the table. The smell of parchment and old sealing wax hanging in the air.

„I thought you’d have retired by now,” Henry said.

“I could say the same of you,” Heinrich replied, a cheeky smile playing across his rips.

Henry chuckled softly. “Touché.”

Henry watched him closely. His jaw had hardened in the past year, the shadow of a beard on his chin, leaving behind the childish features, but the boy’s thoughtfulness hadn’t left. He wore a velvet doublet, neat, rolled up at the forearms. There was dignity in his posture, even as his back was hunched from the straining day’s work, a straight, broad back, carrying himself according to his standing. But there was also kindness in his eyes, warm bright eyes, underlined by deep shadows.

“You look tired,” Henry said at last.

“That’s because I am.”, Heinrich smiled, but an exhausted sigh left his lips, his hand running through his golden hair.

“You still work more than you need to.”, Henry’s voice turning softer now.

“Says the man who never grants himself any moment of rest either. I see you running yourself ragged, doing every little thing you can get your hands on, when you’re not right by his side.”

Henry huffed, but he couldn’t deny the accusation put against him with a smile but also honest worry.

„No need to point the finger elsewhere. What are you still doing here at this hour? Is it nothing that can wait till morning?“

“I’m nearly a man,” Heinrich said. “It’s time I earned my place.”

Henry’s eyes stayed on him for a moment, studying him. There was nothing defensive in the words, only clarity. Heinrich meant it, not as ambition, but responsibility. Henry felt something in his chest tighten, not unpleasantly.

Heinrich rested his head in his hands.

„He never takes a break either.“, he admited quietly, „you’re like two sides of a coin. One not better than the other.“

Henry knew, of course he did. It was a rarity these days that he saw Hans in the morning. Most days he had left by first light, sometimes earlier. He treasures the days he got him to stay in, even if just for a short time. The time he had him all for himself, before the days duty loomed in, before responsibility took over, pulling them from the comfort of their canopy.

Come evening, he’d found him sleeping, more often than not. Either on his study table or having reached the bed. Silently joining, embracing him, enjoying the soft noises he made, as he leaned into it or sometimes woke up enough to grant him slow, warm kisses before drifting off again.

Henry didn’t mind. It was more than he had dared hope for at times.

„I just feel like…“, another frustrated sigh from the young heir. „I wanna be able to do more. I know he doesn’t want to pressure me, but… I can help, you know? I wanna help.“ He looked up his eyes landing with intend on Henry.

„Not just with duties or signatures or settling trade disputes. I want to take the weight from him, even if only a little. He’s not old, but he’s been carrying things for a long time.”

“He won’t admit to it,” Henry murmured.

“No,” Heinrich agreed. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

Henry brows rose just slightly.

“You’ve been at his side longer than I’ve been alive,” Heinrich continued. “You’ve seen him at his best. His worst. You know him the best of everyone, more than my mother, maybe even himself.”, his smile turned sly at the last sentence.

Henry leaned back slightly, arms crossing over his chest, as he pondered. It didn’t unsettle him anymore, that it was very clear to see, that the boy- no, young man- had come to understand the nature of their relationship, some time ago already. They weren’t open about it, but they also didn’t bother much about hiding it as meticulously as they once did, having grown comfortable, feeling safe in their surroundings.

A thought crossed his mind. A mention, long forgotten, said of the top of the hat, before duty had reached in on them.

„Actually…“, he started, brows furrowed, trying to catch the memory. Young Heinrich’s eyes gleaming hopefully in the low light. If he had ever struggled, his uncle was always to be counted on.
„Aye?“

„He mentioned once, he’d wanna go see the sea. Forever and a day ago, before there was even the thought of you.“

“Do you think he still wants to?”, voice rising at the prospect.

A beat passed. “I think he’s never stopped.”

Heinrich leaned back, nodding once. “Then I’ll make it happen. No, we make it happen. He won’t go alone.” Without you. Unsaid, but understood, words hanging between them.

Henry looked at him again, really looked. Though he looked so much like his father, mixed with his mother’s warm features, he was so much himself, not merely his father’s son. Steady hands. Thoughtful eyes. Quiet, sure voice.

“You’re becoming someone he never expected,” Henry said.

Heinrich smiled faintly. “Is that good?”

Henry’s answer was gentle. “It’s the best thing he could have hoped for.”

Tension hanging between them, proud filling Henry’s eyes. Seeing the small boy turn into a man, his ward, his son.
Understanding in Heinrich’s.

“He’ll try to turn it into a political errand,” Heinrich cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “You‘ll have to be creative about finding an excuse. For him.“

Henry leaned on his thighs, bracing himself to rise from his seat again, needing more leverage than he used to.

„Well the hairs on this head might thin and fade, but the inside still works marvelously.“, he winked.

Before he left, his hand landed on Heinrich’s shoulder.

„Make sure you don’t push yourself too much, aight? Whatever it is, it’ll still be there come morning. No need to pick up his bad habits.“, he caringly patted his shoulder.

***

They had wandered the coast all afternoon, pausing here and there for no reason other than to see, to feel, to wonder. Hans collected stones and shells without remark, tucked them into his pocket as if they were important collections. Henry let him, no complaint on his lips, fiddling with his gifted shell.

Now they sat together in the sand, cloaks drawn around their shoulders. Hans leaned against him, warm and solid, his head resting comfortably on Henry’s shoulder.

He reached for Hans’s hand beneath the cloak, fingers curling together without needing to be asked. They fit the way they always had.

„I dont think I ever truly forgot about it. It’s just…“, his voice trailed of in the wind. Henry leaned in slightly, keen for him to continue, but not urging him. He knew, he’d tell him in his own time.

„There was a time I thought it’d never be possible. I pushed it away, learned to live with what I had, trying to focus on the positive, keep myself from suffocating.“, he squeezed Henry’s hand. Memories passed them both in the silence that followed, the good ones, the hard ones.

“You had help.” Henry smiled fondly, his thumb brushing over Hans’s hand. “A certain young Lordling, if I recall. Heinrich’s a stubborn one.”

Hans huffed. “He gets that from you.”

“And his boldness from you,” Henry corrected. “And heart.”

Hans looked down for a moment. “He caught me off guard. The boy practically shoved me onto the road.”

Henry moved against him, gently nudging his shoulder.

„Would you have gone otherwise?“

„Probably not.“

Henry put his forehead against Hans’s temple. „I would have needed to tie you like a hog and fling you on my horse. Kidnapping you from your own sense of duty.“

„Pff- That wasn’t comfortable then, it’d worse now! You can’t treat these honourable, noble bones like some common flour sack.“, he complained, laughter painting his voice.

„Well, good I didn’t need to and you listened to your son and came of your own accord.“

Hans punched his stomach jokingly, no force behind his blow. „Madman.“

Henry rubbed his nose against him, feeling silly and young again. His arms reaching around, pulling his Lord closer.

Hans grabbed for Henry’s arm, holding onto it. He turned his head towards him, leaning in slowly, and kissed him. Soft and sure and slow.

The light had faded, hiding the water in the dark of night. But the steady sound of the rolling tides surrounded them.

“Thank you.”

Henry tilted his head, confused. “For what?”

“For remembering. For telling him.” A pause. “For being here.”

Henry shrugged, though his voice betrayed him. “Where else would I be?”

Hans’s smile curved slow and warm. “Anywhere I’d want to be, you’d already be there.”

Chapter Text

A soft snort, a stomp, the whip of a tail against pestering flies. Spring had started to settle in. The last remains of winter’s touch fading, molten by the strengthening sun.

Henry had used the lovely clear day to get Pebbles out and about. It had nearly taken him all afternoon to brush the most out of her winter coat, the first of the warm lining of hairs loosening.

The water he had used now murky in the bucket. Pebbles nose coming several times awfully close in her curiosity, only to be pushed back by Henry and resorting back to grazing lazily at the first pale blades of grass.

The struggle with the stubborn mare and the insisting rays of sun, like trying to prove themselves after staying hidden for so long, had caused Henry to break quite the sweat.

It didn’t matter much to him. His father had used to say: sweats an honest work’s witness.

His lips curled slightly. Where once the thought at him had brought an endless depth of grief and sorrow with it, it had dulled. Still aching and causing him despair, especially in the deep of night, needing to be held ever closer in those moments. But it had shifted, sharing space with the fondness of those memories now.

So he had rid himself of his tunic, stripped down to his waist, enjoying the cooling breeze on his back. Pushing Pebbles away again, as her inquiring tongue reached for the tempting salt on his skin.

It hadn’t taken long, until the weather, or other reasons, had lured Hans out of the castle’s musty halls as well. The air inside still hanging with the lingering, smoky air of the winter months.

Sitting on the bench beside him, little Heinrich, being shown how to notch a bowstring. The boy’s attention, however still fleeting, began to drift quickly, finding no joy in the hunt and especially not in it’s preparation. His feet dangling of, kicking in idle motion.

His fingers twitching to go over to the friendly horse. Since Henry had shown him how to make himself a friend with the noble creatures, taking his hand in his own and feeding the grey mare an apple, he had started to overcome his tension and, no, not fear. A nobleman, an heir to Rattay and the house of Leipa would not fear these gigantic, strong, unpredictable beasts. He just had respect, yes, a lot of respect.

Pebbles had started to nudge him softly, looking for more delicious treats much likely, and let him pet her. Once he even got on top of her. Together with Uncle Henry, but that was of no importance.

His eyes wandered over to his Uncle. Always busy with something. His father complained often about it, but he had also explained to him once, that the lot of the peasants was to work, where the nobles‘ duty were to protect them. Though he had also said Uncle Henry was… different. It had confused Heinrich. Sure he always worked, but he also saw him fight and ride out with his father all the time. He was rarely not around.

Heinrich had complained to his mother about it. It felt more complicated than it had to. His mother had just given him one of her soft smiles, patted his head and told him, he’d understand when he’d be older. Ugh, how he hated when adults did that.

The boy was meant to be watching his father’s fingers, calloused, deft, pulling tension into the string like a whispered spell. But instead, his eyes kept wandering, pulled by movement, light, the strange, literally anything more interesting. They landed on the map of pale ridges along Henry’s back.

And the way Henry moved with a kind of quiet purpose that always caught Heinrich’s gaze, a melody on his lips as he softly whistled. As if the world around him dared not rush him. He brushed reverently over Pebbles’ neck. The old horse flicked her ears without worry. Henry’s arms reaching repeatedly up and brushing down, shirt cast aside on the fence rail, sweat carving thin silver paths down his spine.

The sun made the mix of sweat and dust shine on his winter pale skin. In between the brighter pattern, hardened tissue where once skin had been torn.

It was different than like those from running headless along the floors and tripping on the uneven stones. Not the kind from childhood scrapes, Heinrich knew those, had them. These were something else. Long, pale, crooked things. Some crossed each other like rivers fighting over the same earth. One slanted up over a rib like a crude tally mark. Another curled by his side like it once had burned.

„Father…” Heinrich asked without looking away, voice soft. „Did Uncle Henry get those in battle?”

Hans’s hands stilled. The bow creaked gently between his fingers. He did not look up, for he knew each and every single mark, by memory, by the feel beneath his fingertips, his lips, their stories etched into his heart.

„Yes,” he said, simply. Then, as if that were not enough, „Of a sort.”

Heinrich tilted his head, gaze sharpened with wonder.

„They look like stories.”

Hans exhaled. It was nearly a laugh, though it didn’t make it all the way. Something inside him clenching painfully. He reached to adjust the bow in the boy’s hands.

„They are,” he said, low. “But not the kind you’d want to read before sleep.”

Across the yard, Henry straightened. Perhaps he’d heard. Perhaps he hadn’t. He turned slightly, and the sun lit the scar right under his shoulder blade, an old wound that had nearly cost his life.

Hans still remembered the blood. So much blood.

Sometimes it still found him in his sleep. The dread overtaking, now even worse than already then. Falling deeper when you have more to fear losing.

His fingers twitched, the sick wet feeling on his palms again, like they were still stained red.

Blue eyes met Hans’s over the distance, just for a moment. Something passed between them, like being pulled from below the water surface. He snapped, brushing his hand on his pants, striping off the last remainders of the feel.

Heinrich was still watching, rapt.

“I think they’re noble,” he murmured, half to himself. “Like a knight who came back from facing dragons.”

Hans didn’t reply. His gaze lingered on Henry, on the bare skin, the ruins of flesh he once had heaved through the night, through unknown forest’s, filled with adrenaline and panic, not sure what he had feared most at that moment.

He drew the boy into his lap without thinking, arms folded loosely around him.

“Perhaps,” he said at last, resting his chin on the crown of his son’s head. “But dragons leave their mark. Even on the knights who win.”

A thick darkness held him like a heavy blanket, like ropes laden with stones wrapped around him. A dreamless slumber clinging to him, holding him down.

He stirred.

But he couldn’t breach. His eyelids refusing to lift, his consciousness unable to break the surface, the feeling of his unmoving limbs like lead.

His thoughts moved slowly, like molasses spilling over the edge of a spoon. Trying to grasp for his fleeting mind. Time a blur, his memory askew like puzzle pieces.

He tried to move, just to lift a hand, a finger, but even that a task too great. His muscles ached, his head foggy. His body neither asleep, nor awake.

He tasted dried blood on his lips, sweat, and a hint of camomile and wine in the back of his throat. And something else. Something bitter. His stomach clenched at the thought, of the memory flashing through.

His skin was clammy and hot despite the cool breath of dawn seeping through the cracks in the wooden walls. His brow furrowed. Unlike the familiar ache of spending the night in creaky beds beneath his comfort on their journey so far, everything ached.

His hand rose to his forehead, the movement clumsy and slow, massaging his temple as if in attempt to lift the fog. It felt foreign, like someone else were tending to him, a memory of fingers stroking his hair out of his face. Slowly he fought himself up on his elbow, a stabbing pain answering immediately to his movements.

He hissed in air through painfully clenched teeth, hand instinctively grabbing for his side. The rough touch made it flare up even worse. No linen covering his upper body but the wrapped bandages beneath his fingers, a rough woollen blanket pooling around his waist.

Sunlight filtered in through open shutters, warm and pale, stirring the dust in the air like drifting motes of gold. His eyes slowly adjusted to it.

He tried to determine the time it must be by the brightness, his head still not catching up yet.

Before he could finally grasp at what felt right before him, something screaming at him, something of great importance, a voice broke through.

„Easy now, boy“, came a warm but scratchy voice. A woman stepped closer to him, the time and hardship of life showing as lines and grey hairs. Her kind eyes looked at him through a misty veil.

„You’re safe. You’ve only lost so much blood, patched you up best I could. That vagrant got you good with his blade, but you could have had it worse.“

He tried to speak, but his throat was parched. The woman reached out for a cup next to the makeshift bedding and lifted it to his lips, her hand gently supporting the back of his neck. He greedily gulped down the cool water, feeling relief down his throat, though coughing a little.

„Lucky for yous, you found my place, less of luck for me, ha!“, she shook her head, a crude smile showing off her missing teeth.

Right… A flash of steel. The roar of a man. The stink of blood and sweat. Memories of their flight through the dark flashing through Hans’s mind, as biting as the sting in his side.

„What’s-“, his voice rasped. „Where’s-?“, his eyes shining in worry at the woman.

Henry

He struggled to sit up, wincing as his wound protested.

„Shush now!“, the woman pressed a firm hand to his shoulder. „Go slow, before you tear the stitches. That was no easy job, believe you me, with my eyes being as dull as they are and all that in the dark of night.“ Her brows furrowed. „You nearly died, do you hear me?“

He did, though his mind raced elsewhere. Konrad, Tankard, Nicholas, Oats. They had died. Not Henry too. He couldn’t. Of everyone, not him!

„But Henry-!“

„He’s alive.“, she said firmly. „Gods grace above, you both made it.“

Hans stilled. His heart still hammering through his chest to his ears, sweat sticking coldly to his neck. His eyes scanned frantically her face for any well meant lie to calm him, but found nothing but honesty.

„He even took care of our uninvited visitors yesterday.“

„He did what?“

„Aye, he went to clear up the remains of the one you left so graciously before my chicken coop.“, accusation tinting her voice.

„And he went to gather some herbs for fresh brews for yous two, when more of those Do-No-Gooders stepped up, wanting to search my house, looking for yous. But… he took care of them.“

She shook her head, rubbing her brows. „How am I supposed to explain that to the gravedigger?“, she sighed more to herself.

It felt like a boulder rolled of his chest. Henry was alive. He had been up and about, getting into another fight, with two even.

„Is he…“, Hans swallowed hard. „How hurt is he?“ His own shoulder ached from dragging this mountain of a man through the underbrush. The feeling of his feverish, wet skin under his fingers… and the blood. So much blood.

„I put some stitches below his shoulder aswell. Stopped the bleeding fine with some herbs and bandages. Sure bruised as hell, just like you. But he’ll be fine just the same. He’s sleeping it off now, in the back.“ She vaguely pointed behind herself, where Hans could see a low hearth and kettle, and in a dark corner something in the shape of a cot.

He let out a shaky breath and sagged back against the straw padded furs beneath him. The pain still hummed in his gut, but something deeper inside eased.

“You were burning up something fierce,” she went on, her tone softening. “But your friend sat with you last night, cooling your brow until the fever broke enough for you to rest. He prayed for you, wouldn’t leave you, when he should have rested himself. Seemed only able to settle once you had fallen into a deep sleep.”

Hans blinked hard. His vision blurred, not from fever this time.

The woman went to gently check the bandage on his stomach.

“You’re lucky,” she murmured. “Another inch, and you wouldn’t have made it back up the stairs again. And I surely couldn’t have dragged you in.”

Hans gave a weak, lopsided smile. “Luck’s not on my side lately it seems.”

She snorted. “Then thank the gods for stubborn fools who drag each other through the woods half-dead.”

He let his eyes drift closed, the image of Henry kneeling beside him refusing to fade. His fingers curled into the blanket.

“He stayed?”, his voice but a whisper.

“Aye” the woman replied. “He refused to leave your side.”

Hans could hear the kind woman humming as she tended to her work outside. He didn’t know what peasants got busy with the whole day. She mentioned animals, maybe she was feeding and cleaning after them. Or the turnip garden he thought he had seen. Or maybe she had just left to offer him some space. To collect himself, to settle back into his aching bones, to sort his thoughts.

The hut was quiet now. The absence of her talking, making the bubbling and crackling at the fire seem even louder.

His eyes wandered over. Settling on the dark corner.

He swallowed around the knot in his throat. Henry was there. If he listened just hard enough, he could swear to hear his breathing. Or he was just imagining it. The woman had done a great job at keeping Hans’s soul behind his ribs, so there was no reason to assume Henry was worse to wear.

But still… there was this gnawing, this cold creeping up his spine and curling around his innards. Battling with the urge that made his fingers twitch, to see him, feel the life still blooming warmly beneath his skin.

Hans pushed himself upright with a grunt, his muscles protesting the movement. He eyed his bandage covered midsection. Clean cloth over dirt streaked skin, as if wiped hastily. A brown tinge of dried blood staining the middle of it.

He peeled them back just enough to see. The wound was ugly, but closed. The stitches, neat and dark against his pale skin, done by a well practiced hand, that didn’t need much eyesight anymore for a task etched into their memories. A bright red trickle seeped through the raw, tender suture line, working past the edge of torn skin.

He cursed quietly and let the bandage fall back into place. It would surely bleed again once he’d move more, but he had expected worse.

Slowly he pushed himself up, hand bracing on the next surface, carefully testing his boundaries. The floor was cool beneath his feet, and his knees trembled for a moment before finding their strength.

Hans crossed the space with careful, measured steps, one hand on his side, an attempt to support his stitches.

There he was.

Henry lay on his back, one arm draped above his head, the other resting loosely at his side, the blanket bunched around his hips. His chest covered in similar bandages to his own, though Hans couldn’t see the dooming arrow wound, he knew was on his back, right under his shoulderblade.

An unfamiliar new bruise showed along his shoulder, like being hit by a pommelstrike, an addition to the mean one that painted his other side, the one that had taken the fall. But otherwise, he was whole. His chest rising soft and evenly. His breath going deep and steady. His mouth slightly open in a soft snore. Hair mussed and curling against his temple.

Alive.

Hans stood there for a moment, watching him, finally feeling a fresh bout of air allowed to fill his lungs again. Relief swept through him like a tide, the intensity joining the sudden oxygenrush, making him light-headed.

His knees gave in, he faltered. His hand nearly reached for the hearth, his other finding late purchase on the bed frame, as he thankfully didn’t floor his behind, but landed on a conveniently placed stool. Much likely from Bozena’s night watch.

His head was swimming, his breath ragged, his vision blurring from moisture. It wasn’t from the piercing in his side at the movement, dulled, pushed to the back, his mind preoccupied.

He reached out and rested a hand lightly on Henry’s wrist, just to feel the warmth of him, the solid truth of him.

A small sound escaped Hans as his fingertips touched the soft skin, part laugh, part gasp, part something tangled deeper in the chest. The gathering wetness in his eyes broke free, carving quiet paths along his cheeks.

“We did it,” he murmured hoarsely. “You bloody idiot… we actually did it.”

Henry didn’t stir.

Hans let his hand linger a moment longer, his fingers tenderly curling around Henry’s, his thumb absently stroking over the back of his hand, as if to assure him he was still there.

He just sat there, watching over Henry as the sunlight crept slowly across the floor. His eyes glued to his gentle sleep, his rhythmical breathing, the colour that had returned to his cheeks.

The madman had managed to keep himself from drowning, had survived an unprotected arrow shot, hadn’t bled out when they ran from their assailants and even falling like a falcon shot from the skies. God clearly had a soft spot for this particular fool, closely guarded like a candle in the wind.

And Hans was all the grateful for it, relief hitting him like a wave, sharp and aching as it lifted a weight from his chest. It hurt. Pulling deeply inside as it all rolled over him. It had to have been divine power that saved them. Or dumb luck… a foolish decision, his decision. His shoulders trembled, a quiet sob shaking him.

He took Henry’s hand between both of his, holding it tight. He bent his head, forehead brushing Henry’s knuckles. Didn’t say a word. Just held on, as if the world might still take what little was left.

His lips quivered, his teeth sinking roughly into it, keeping the broken sounds at bay, the pain little distraction from the storm raging inside him. He didn’t taste blood, but it made him wonder at his hands, so close to his face. They were clean, someone having wiped all the blood from it.

He wondered it could have been the herb woman. A wet laugh bubbling up, he wiped his runny nose with his arm, pressing Henry’s hand against his cheek.

He knew. The idiot who had not left his side.

He smiled, through the tears silently running down. He pressed his lips together, letting the sorrow flow freely, letting the sobs quietly shake him.

They had survived.

For now, that was enough.

The candle light flickered low, the air hung thickly in the room for the shutters where closed, keeping the world outside. The haphazardly draped over sheets cling to their sweat damp skin. Exhaustion heaving their breaths, heat of their recently spent passion lingering between them. Neither of them moved, arms still wrapped around each other.

Henry’s arm curled around Hans’s head, lips resting against his crown, breathing the familiar, comforting scent.

Hans’s cheek pressed against Henry’s chest, hairs tickling his face, his fingers trailing across Henry’s back, like tracing a map only he knew how to read.

Callused pads drifting over familiar ridges, the silvered remnants of old battles. Some smooth, some jagged. One near his ribs he remembered dressing himself. Another above his hip, ghosted by a mace.

Each scar pulled memory to the surface. Some told as stories, some he lived through.

This one from a blade too close to the heart. That one from a quarrel shot out of nowhere. Another, narrow and deep, had kept Henry fevered for days. Hans hadn’t slept beside him then, only knelt, praying for heaven’s intervention, sick with waiting.

His fingers stopped, resting over the old spot where the arrow had hit him at rocktower pond. Now barely noticeable. When the sun bronzed his skin, it shone like a bright spot, pulled tight over the years, now not bigger than the dip of his finger. Doing no justice to it’s retrieval.

The night where it hadn’t been Henry carrying him to safety, but the other way. An echo of the panic, a kind he had never had known before. One of the many feelings he had experienced in all their extremes during that cursed trip to Trosky.

He didn’t speak. Just followed the trail further, down Henry’s arm, brushing over curling hairs and across the lean muscle to his hand, earning him a content grumble, which he felt vibrating against his head.

His fingers trailed Henry’s, twisting and threading through his fingers, rough and darkened from years of labor. A small, pale line marked one knuckle. He didn’t know that one. Didn’t ask.

His lingering touch enough for Henry to go by. He hummed, lazy.

“Hammer slipped. Twice. Pa yelled, Ma fussed, and then she fed me honey cakes for being brave.”

He smiled against Hans’s hair. Hans was glad to hear the warmth in Henry’s voice, to feel him not tense up, the fondness outweighing the grief most of times he told of memories now.

His thumb hoovered there, thoughtful, drawing idle circles
“Heinrich asked about them. The scars.” A half-smile crept into his voice. “Said he wanted some of his own. Like yours. Thinks it’ll make him a glorious knight.”

Henry huffed a breath, part laugh, part grunt. „He’s what? Seven?“

„Eight,“, Hans corrected, quiet. „Already dreaming of swords, when he hasn’t even lost his lent teeth.“

Silence settled between them. „It’s too early for him to want to bleed.“

Henry didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Hans could feel the same unease in the slight tension under his skin.

Hans swallowed, slow. “So many, too many,” he murmured, “Making me fear, I might lose you.” His fingers clenched around Henry’s.

He turned his face into Henry’s shoulder. The scent of skin, of sweat, of their recent union, of something safe. And fragile.

“‘M not ready to worry about two idiots charging selflessly at danger like their honour is the only thing to live for.”

Henry pulled their hands up, placing tender kisses on Hans’s knuckles. He paused, letting go to reach for his chin. Softly pulling him up until their eyes met.

He placed a soft kiss on his lips, slow and sweet. As their lips parted lazily, skin sticking, as if reluctant to stop.

„He‘s still a child, thinking of fairy tales, dreaming of knighthood. It’ll be too soon, that it’ll catch up. Robbing him of that shine he still has. He’ll realise that he doesn’t want these scars, he’s a smart boy. Let him his awe for some more time. “

Hans’s eyes held his, soft and steady. His gaze filled with understanding and a silent echo of agreement.

Henry leaned down again, without hurry. The moment had all the time in the world, here in this room, in their bed.

Their lips met in a kiss that barely pressed. Lips softly brushing, carefully closing around one another. Just the warmth of breath shared, the softness of skin on skin. Henry’s hands cupped his face, pulled him in, as his body instinctively shuffled closer. Hans’s hands curling on his chest, raking through the hair, caressing the skin. The need to feel closer still, wandering up to wrap around his neck, fingers carding into the short brown hair.

The scratch of fingernails across his skin made Henry shudder, a soft noise leaving his lips. Hans tilted his head, deepening the kiss at the opening. Tasting familiar sweetness, the hint of sweat earlier lapped up from burning skin, the taste of him, of them.

A moan mixing with Henry’s, who’s hands wandered. Stroking tenderly over his ribs, leaving goosebumps in it’s wake. Reaching around his back, pulling him in tightly. The urge to be one, pressing against each other, feeling the heat of their bodies like skin melting together, borders blurring. Just their lips meeting again and again, in drawn out motion.

It wasn’t urgent. It didn’t need to be. It lingered, slow and unspoken, full of quiet knowing. A kiss warm and safe like the flickering fire, like the hush between heartbeats.

They lay in the comfortable quiet of sleep creeping in. Breaths slowed, lips only occasionally brushing, warm bodies tangled, and Hans let his hand rest.

Over a mark he’d never forget, on skin he never thought he’d get to touch like this, and still get to touch to this day.