Archive of Our Own ^beta

Henry doesn’t allow himself a final look.

He wouldn’t call himself a superstitious man, by any means, but the thought of turning to watch Suchdol recede over his shoulder feels like it would be courting disaster. It’s foolish, really. Henry knows the fortress has endured trebuchet fire and hand cannons, its walls aren’t going to crack from a distant glance, but he can’t bring himself to turn his head.

It’s too close to a goodbye, and he’s sworn those off for the time being.

Still, something behind his ribs pulls tight with each hoofbeat. The stolen mare snorts, unhappy under the weight of both of them, but her pace stays steady. Henry shifts his hand on the reins, bumping his wrist into Sam’s ribs a bit in the process. He tenses, smothering a groan as he tries to twist away from the pressure, but there’s nowhere to go. 

“You alright, Sam?” He asks. “Do we need to stop?”

“I’m fine.” He hisses, shifting awkwardly in the saddle. “Don’t waste any more time on me than you already have.”

“Stop that.” Henry’s voice is tight. “There’s no world where I’d think saving my brother is a waste, so I don’t want to hear any more of this from you. If you need a break, then say so.”

“I’m alright, Bruder. How much farther?”

“I figured our best shot was Rattay, so we’re not terribly far off. Half a day if we stay off the roads.” Henry knows he should be amending that calculation. It’d be half a day for a horse with a single rider, maybe less if the rider had ribs that could tolerate a brisk gallop. For them, they’ll be lucky if they see the Sasau before the next nightfall.  

He tries to turn his mind away from the mental calculus of how many more Praguers will climb over the wall before they see Pirkstein. This is the best thing he can do for them. He knows that, but every moment in the saddle feels like a moment wasted. Sam, bless him, understands the tension in his shoulders without even seeing his face. 

“I saw your handiwork, Henry. The Praguers will have a hard time organizing another attack when they wake up to so many men to bury.”

“Maybe.”

Sam’s speaking truth. He knows this, but Henry can’t let himself believe it. He thinks about all the Praguers he’d left scattered in the fields around Suchdol, but his mind keeps turning to the ones he’d left laughing by the cookpot or safe in their beds. Each one had a sword in his belt and who’s to say how many of those could be buried into a throat in Suchdol before he returns.   

An image of blood darkening a poppy red liripipe wavers at the edge of his vision. His mind poisons him with the thought of a crop of dull blond hair stuck to the mud, blue eyes clouding over as they stare unblinking towards the sky.

Henry digs into his pouch till his fingers wrap around well-worn beads and thumbs over the strand. He stares into the torchlight as he counts out his prayers, waiting for the flame's ghostly spots to chase away the visions of Hans’ corpse.

He’s not going to die .

He was warm and breathing beneath him only a few hours ago.

He was light-headed before he’d taken him to bed.

Weeks of hunger had hollowed him out, and the thrill of Hans’ skin against his had rushed in to fill the empty space. Henry’s still floating several inches above his body while he watches Hans prop his ankle on his thigh to help him don his greave. It should’ve felt rapturous to see his lord kneeling, Henry’s kisses branded on his throat as he dresses him, but the looming demands of the hour weigh heavily on them both. Hans keeps fussing with one of the buckles on the backstrap, the brass latch slipping through his trembling fingers again and again.

“Christ, I would’ve thought a blacksmith would know how to keep a buckle in decent working order.” He laughs, but he clears his throat, displeased with how high and tight it comes out.

“That one catches, here let me try.”

“No, I’ve got it.”

“The strap’s twisted, Hans, you have to- “ Henry bends down to take over, but Hans cups a hand around the buckle.

“Hal, I have to do this.” Hans’ voice scrapes against his throat, and Henry can hear the fear welling at the edge as well as he can feel it in his own chest.

“Alright,” He can’t do much else, so he pulls a gauntlet free and runs his fingers through Hans’ hair. “It’s alright. We’ve got time enough still.”

The tremor in his hand eases as Henry traces his fingers to his nape and back, content to let these last quiet breaths together stretch out between them. When Hans threads the last buckle and tucks the ends of the strap away, he doesn’t raise his head. A droplet patters against the dented metal of Henry’s cuisse, neither acknowledges it.

His cheeks are dry when he lifts his head, but his eyes are so glassy in the firelight that Henry knows it won’t last. “It doesn’t feel like it’s enough.”

“It is.” Henry brushes a knuckle across Hans’ cheek. “I’ve never been more prepared for a task. 

He nods stiffly at him, but his hands betray him, still wringing uselessly in his lap. Henry knows the feeling intimately. Trosky, Nebakov, and Maleshov have left him well acquainted with that boiling urge to find something to do with his hands that could tip the scales.

“Maybe…” Henry pokes his tongue into his cheek. “Would you give me some token of yours?”

“A token?”

“Aye, something of yours I can keep close while I’m away. It can be anything.”

“A lock of my hair to bring you luck?” A wobbly smile settles on Hans’ lips as he winds a golden lock around a finger. “I’ll give you some, of course, but I’m afraid it’ll be a bit shorter than what the maidens have you used to.”

Hans laughs, and Henry knows this would be enough. The memory of him laughing in this room, bare-chested with his hair sticking up at all angles, could carry him through to the far corners of the world. But he is greedy.

“It doesn’t have to be that. Anything really. Whatever you like.”

“Alright, I think-I think I know the thing.” Hans picks through the pile of his discarded clothes until he comes away with a rosary. It’s a curiously simple thing to find in his lord’s possession. Wooden beads on a leather cord, no adornments, gold, or gem anywhere.

“Wouldn’t expect you to carry one like this.”

“I know. I’ll tell you how I got it when you get back, alright?” He takes his face in his hand, fingers tensing over that word. When .

“Aye, I’ll look forward to it,” Henry says. “And you’ll be here when I get back, right?”

“Of course.” Their hands stay clasped over the rosary as it's pushed into Henry’s chest, but Hans’ other hand slips from his cheek and comes to rest on the bruise he’d bitten into the juncture of his shoulder. He traces the darkening shape gingerly as he squeezes their hands over the beads. “Look after this for me, alright.”

Henry swallows but remembers to nod. “Till then.”

“Till then.”

There’s no time wasted on sleep.

But that’s only true for Henry. He’s all too insistent on plying Sam with what little painkiller brew he’s packed and bracing him against his chest when he slumps into unconsciousness. They ride steadily through the thickening woods like that until their steed is close to bucking the weight of them both. Henry doesn’t break pace. He just slides from the saddle and pulls Sam onto his own back, so they can at least continue creeping southward.

He doesn’t even feel the slack weight of Sam’s body on his shoulders. He just keeps telling himself Sasau is over the next hill.

But then they pass over that hill and the one after, and the pinkening forest bleeds around them with no end in sight. The sun crests behind them, and the fear that Henry’s led them off course climbs up his throat. Blood’s thumping past his ears, drowning out the steady crunch of his feet in the underbrush, but he can hear the Praguers' battlecries in the climbing chorus of birdsong.

“Almost there.” He wraps the reins a little tighter around his palm.

Day passes into night and back into day before Pribyslavitz wobbles into view. He whispers an apology to their tired mare and digs his spurs in one last time, urging her forward as hard as he can. Men are already in the fields, and he whistles for any man-at-arms he can see to follow him as he rides into town. 

The horse’s lips are rimed with foam when he finally pulls Sam from her back in front of the Rathaus and calls out to his very confused Master Locator. “See to it that he’s tended to, and when he’s well enough, give him a horse. I’m riding for Rattay at once.”

“Henry…” Sam fights the wisps of painkiller brew in his blood to try and push himself up on his elbows. “You’ve been riding all night. Send the letter ahead and at least get something to eat.

“Sam, you’re in good hands here.”Henry stops him with a firm press on his shoulder. "These are my people, okay, they’ll see that you’re back on your feet.”

Sam looks to the group of men that have gathered around them and tries to will one of them into stepping in and making his brother see reason.

Marius grimaces, but tries his best. “He’s right, Henry. You’ll be no use to them if you pass out on your horse.”

But their words just roll off Henry. 

When he stands, there’s the usual moment of dizziness, and he waits for the rushing in his ears to dispel before he calls out. “Get me a fresh horse and send a rider to Talmberg and any other fucking rock Jobst could be hiding under. Suchdol is under siege, and aid must come to them at once!” 

Henry turns to find the small crowd unmoving, and his lip curls furiously. “What are you standing around for? Hurry!”

“We’ll see to it at once, but Hal, you don’t look well.” One of the groomsmen says as he unties a fresh horse from the hitching rail. 

“Indeed.” Marius nods and points to the crumpled letter peaking out of Henry’s pouch. “I’ll send a man ahead, Hal, you should rest.”

“Not a chance.” He scoffs, pulling himself into the saddle of the waiting stallion.

He turns the beast south and digs in his heels. The sun’s over the treeline, and enough bodies must be in the ground for the Praguers to turn hungry for revenge. He can hear arrowheads dig into paveses over the sound of hoofbeats, Zizka’s calling for stones to throw down the murder hole, and the point of a halberd finds the soft flesh of Hans’ cheek before it rips upward.

He shakes those evils from his head and squeezes his thighs around the barrel of his mount. Henry makes the journey from Pribyslavitz to Rattay with Hans’ rosary in his hand, working through the Hail Marys and Our Fathers as they surge down the familiar road. He winds his way over the beads again and again, sending his prayers into the breeze rushing past his face as if they could turn an arrow away from Suchdol's battlements.  

Hanush and Radzig are only partly through their midday meal when the commotion they’d heard brewing in the courtyard clambers into the feast hall. The doors swing out, and Henry stumbles in looking like a man already half dead.

“Hal?” Radzig immediately rises from his seat. The shock of his arrival even sends the decanter Hanush had raised to his goblet clattering back to the table.

Henry blinks heavily before turning toward the sound of his father’s voice. Radzig would think he’s blind drunk if it wasn’t for the blood flaking off his cheeks and the wild edge in his red-rimmed eyes.  

“Father, listen, we need whatever men we have to ride to Suchdol at once.” Henry takes a few unsteady steps toward him, but ends up having to brace himself against the table. “Praguers, have the place under siege. I don’t know how much longer they can hold out. We have to go now!”

“Slow down, Henry, you’re working yourself into hysterics.” Hanush holds out his hands in a placating gesture, concern etched into his face. Not enough of it.

“They have Hans!” His voice breaks, and the look exchanged between the lords finally convinces him to take a breath. “Sir Hans, Peter of Pisek, Žižka, everyone. They’re starving and they need our help. I was given this to deliver to Jobst.”

He pulls out the crumpled missive from his pouch and holds it out in an unsteady grip.

“Thank you, my boy.” Radzig takes it and tries to meet his son’s eyes, but his gaze lilts a few inches to the left like a drunkard. Or a man moments from passing out.

“We can’t waste any more time.” Henry slurs as he pushes off the table.

“We won’t.” Radzig's voice softens. He draws his words out like he’s soothing another man’s dog, but Christ, all Henry can think is he’s wasting time by speaking so Goddamn slow. “You’ve done a commendable job, Henry. I can only imagine what you must have been through getting this here, but now the task falls to us.”

“Eat something. Get some rest.” Hanush claps a meaty hand on his shoulder and dismisses him with a nod.

“What?” He gapes at them.

“God’s wounds boy, you can hardly stay on your feet. You’re not going to be leading the charge straight back.” Hanush says.

“But no-we have to..” Henry squeezes his eyes. “He’s dying.”

Radzig stiffens, but his calm doesn’t waver. “Was Capon wounded during the siege?” 

“Yes! No…I don’t know,” His voice sounds papery as he raises a fist to his forehead, the rosary dangling limply from between clenched fingers. He’s seen Hans die so many times now, it’s hard for him to parse which deaths are worth reporting. 

Surely, they’ve already heard he was hanged at Trosky. His head got bashed in at Nebakov, or wait…did the roof crush him?  

“Hal, I think you should sit down…”

“M’fine.” 

All the beloved corpses piled up in the back of his mind press down on him and each moment wasted here means another one joins the building pyre.

“What are you standing around for?” He slurs, brow furrowing when his own feet won’t move.

There’s a hand on his back and his father's lips are moving, but he can’t hear a damn thing over all this noise. He looks around, trying to find the fool who’s brought a sharpening wheel indoors, but the chamber blurs together and the whine builds and builds.

The floor’s pitching beneath his boots, and wherever he looks to steady himself he only finds Hans slumped over dead. Cloudy blue eyes bore into him as the cannon fire outside moves into Henry’s chest. The volleys are thudding against his ribs faster and louder as he struggles to breathe, and the sound frays in his ears. He can hear him clearly now.

                                                                                Christ, they’ve breached the gate!

                Help me! Someone!

                                                          Henry, for the love of God!

Hans’ name is little more than a breath as Henry’s eyes roll up into his head, 

At the time, he didn’t feel his head bounce off Hanush’s table, but the impact reasserts itself as his mind bubbles thickly back to the surface. Groaning, he presses a palm to his temple and half expects it to come away with shards of his skull stuck to the skin, but blessedly, God seems to have left what little brains he was born with in their place. He turns idly and is confused when the floor beneath him shifts against bare skin, his eyelids flicker open to the sight of a small fireplace inset within a familiar frescoed wall. Henry’s eyes drag over the hunting scene, jittery in the firelight. The young archer’s still tensed to loose his arrow into the bloody hart just like the last time he’d awoken in this bed.

They’d brought him to Capon’s room. Christ. 

 
“Are you back with us?” Radzig stands by the window, arms folded over his chest. The light spilling into the room paints him bloody, and the color curdles as Henry grasps for the hours that have passed. Is it dusk or dawn, how much time did he waste useless in this bed?  

“How long was I asleep?” He winces at the sound of his own voice. His tongue feels thick and bruised against the roof of his mouth. Maybe he bit it as he fell.

“Not nearly long enough by my estimations.” Radzig tsks, but the reproach he seems to have had prepared softens when he turns to him. He must look even more of a sorry sight than he feels. “Calm yourself, my boy, we’re readying the assault as we speak and we’ll be marching for Suchdol as soon as we can. Have faith.”

“I do, but don’t let me keep from supervising. I’m fine here.” His voice trails off, but Sir Radzig remains rooted by the foot of the bed. 

It’s the first time he’s seen anyone be still since he left Suchdol, and the lack of motion sends something buzzing beneath his skin. The lord’s eyes trace over him, no doubt appraising the wretch that’s returned to Rattay. He lets out a sigh, and Henry tenses for whatever lecture or indictment he’s earned. 

“When’s the last time you ate something?”

Henry blinks up at him. “It’s been a moment.”

Somehow, over the past few days the hunger that’s clawed at the bounds of his stomach had scarred over, he still felt empty, but the need was dull. Still, his eyes land on the tray of food sitting by the fireplace, and he tries to stand. Immediately, there’s a hand on his shoulder that keeps him pressed to the mattress.

“I wouldn’t be a good guest if I let my son bloody any more of Hanush’s tables. You’re not getting out of this bed until you’ve had something.”

“Yes, sir.”

Radzig brings over the bowl of thin porridge. It’s long gone cold, the dollop of stewed fruit that’d been spooned on top has swelled and slumped into the potage, but Henry shovels it into his mouth without a thought. He’d thought his first bites after weeks spent on quarter rations would be rapturous. He and Hans had spent idle afternoons propped up against the smithy wall dreaming of suckling pig and kolach they’d have once they were free, but as the seige stretched out they found themselves fantasizing about crusts of black bread and oatmeal with more naked want.

He can feel the cream coating his tongue and the berries splitting beneath his teeth, but he can’t taste them. Not like it matters, just need to get through it.

“Slowly or you’ll just see it all up again.” His father pulls up a chair next to the bed, and Henry wants to argue but his cheeks are full.   

“It’s no small miracle you made it here.” Henry hears something clatter beside him, and turns to see Hans’ rosary beads on the little table. “Your prayers seem to have found their way to open ears.”

Wasn’t praying for myself, he thinks, but keeps that behind his teeth.

“I wasn’t alone, another…volunteer went with me.” He hesitates. It doesn’t feel like the time to unveil this branch of their odd family tree, but his father reads that beat of silence differently and gives him a very sober nod.

“He’s alive,” Henry says. “We got separated, and he was captured during the escape. Managed to get him out, but I thought it was best to stop in Pribyslavitz to get him tended to. He was pretty banged up by the bastards.”

“Looks like you got a good thrashing in yourself.” His skin’s been cleaned of most of the blood and dirt, but the Praguers unwilling to die quietly had gotten a few good hits in.

“Though it doesn’t appear all those bruises were earned in battle...were they, my boy?” His moustache nearly presses against his nose from the knowing smirk, and Henry freezes, fingers flying to the bruises blooming along his neck.

“Well, I had some encouragement before the battle.” He mutters, tugging his collar over the garden of love bites Hans had apparently left him with.

“She might’ve been a bit overeager.” His father snorts.

“I can forgive that. We both thought this was to be a suicide mission.”

“You seem quite smitten with her, should I trouble Hanush with holding a second wedding in his castle?”

“No, she’s already promised to someone else.” He murmurs as he winds the rosary beads around his palm. 

“Oh.” He nods, and they both seem prepared to leave it at that, but then Radzig puckers his lips. “Now, far be it from me to lecture you on the lasting consequences of youthful passions but-”

Jesus Christ…

“No chance of that .”

“Son, are you sure, because…” Radzig rocks back in his chair. “You’d be surprised how easily some women take especially at your age.”

“Christ,” Henry drags a hand over his face. “Aye, aye, I’m absolutely certain.”

His father lifts a doubtful brow, and he decides that if a bit of the truth can save him, he’ll gladly suffer sharing it. 

“The hunger kept me from being much use to her in that way .” Heat stains his cheeks, and he tries to look anywhere but his father’s face.

“Ah, well alright,” Radzig mashes his lips into a tight line, and Henry prays he’s being delivered from having to elaborate any further on his sex life.

“Brief as it might have been I’m glad to hear you found someone to brighten those dark days.”

“I just hope she can hold on a little longer. I don’t know what I’d do if I made it all the way here only to return too late.”

“Take courage, we’ll be ready to depart soon. Let us handle mustering our forces, and you just do your best to regain your strength. You want to be of use to her when it matters most, right?” He offers a sly wink as he rises, and it manages to wrench a laugh out of Henry.  

“Aye, I’ll try.”

“Very good, now get some rest.”   

“Yes, sir,” He says as he’s finally left alone in his lover’s room.

Even muted by the cloud of anxiety and fear, a thrill still lances his heart at the word. Is that what Hans is to him now? He truly hadn’t let it sink in entirely. Those hours on horseback had been so choked with fear that the miracle of what had happened never fully took hold of him. Capon had kissed him. After all those months spent gnawing on his heartstrings, trying uselessly to sever the cursed affection that had taken root for that blue-blooded bastard, Hans was the one who couldn’t bear to keep his heart in his chest. 

It doesn’t feel real, even with the proof of that kiss stamped into his neck so plainly his own father couldn’t leave it without comment. Capon had kissed him, and he’d kissed back.

Finally, Henry’s allowed to inch up to the window, and the sight of a courtyard buzzing long after evening bells have faded into cricketsong releases some of the tension that's bunched underneath his skin. Whetstones shower the muddy yard with sparks as men work through the assembled piles of halberds and swords. All the while, carts are being loaded with supplies for a battalion preparing to march. From here in the tower, he can oversee the bobbing flecks of torchlight crisscrossing the hillside.

They’re a few miles from Raborsch when banners bearing the Moravian eagle finally ride up to them. Jobst offers his greetings and men, but it’s odd how little all that steel and muscle registers in Henry’s mind. He’s glad to have them, of course, but it feels like adding a few more arrows to his quiver when he’s already decided this is a fight he’ll settle with a sword. 

Leaving Rattay with a full belly has fattened his confidence and left him certain that Suchdol will be liberated, whether there’s an army at his back or not. Jobst and Hanush could hold their forces and send him into that camp with a rusty horseshoe, he’d reduce it to a pile of corpses given enough time.

But he can’t spare another minute. 

Henry really hadn't grasped how much the last weeks had shaved him down until he toweled himself down after his bath. It was strange to find his belly taught and flat and discover his fingers could sink into the furrows between each rib. He was fortunate to have some padding on his bones, the soft fat trimming his frame had kept most of the strength in his bones. Hans, however, didn't enter Sucdhol with much softness to render out. Henry chews a piece of jerky as he trots up the line and gives the pouch strapped to his saddlebag another tap just to be sure. Boar jerky, smoked cheese, and millet were packed into the bag next to a carefully wrapped poppy kolach. Taste might not have been a concern to him, but he couldn't have Hans spurning rations for his palate’s sake. 

“You’re looking better.” Sam nods at him,

“You’re one to talk.” Henry snorts. He’s still riding a little stiffly. Henry knows his ribs are bandaged beneath the brigadine, but still, seeing his brother sitting tall in the daylight, buoys his spirits immensely.

“Even if I may not be up to skewering these bastards myself, I did not want to miss the chance to see you chase these gonivim back to Prague.” 

“I’m looking forward to that as well…”

“They’re going to be alright,” Sam says.

“I want to believe you, but when we left them, they were down to eating shoes. I could barely stand when I got to Rattay.” Henry rubs at the horn of his saddle and tries not to let the worst overtake him, but it's certainly dwelling in the back of his mind.   

“That should bring you comfort if anything.”

“How d’you mean?”

“You held on long past your limits to get to Rattay, no food, no sleep, and probably exhausted half out of your mind from keeping me upright in that saddle with you.” Sam smiles faintly. “But you held on because there was a goal in sight, yes? You knew if you could keep going for a few more miles, someone else would be there for you.”

“I suppose, but-”

“It’s no different for them. They know there’s help coming over the hill.” He turns back to the column of cavalrymen ahead of them before he says simply, “He’s holding on for you, Henry.” 

There’s no argument that he wants to give to that. 

Their company comes to a halt as they crest the hill, and Henry rides up to the front of the column to take in the scene. The rosary beads squeak under his grip, and he fears the cord might snap as his eyes fall on the smoking husk of Suchdol. Praguers stew about the town, lazily stripping whatever they can find in the emptied houses and tossing it into waiting wagons. Their weapons are already stowed away, the trebuchets erected around the fortress are still, there’s no call for archers, or clash of steel. It’s all sickeningly silent.  

He’s too late.   

The morning sun goes cold on his back as he tries to pick out Hans’ body from the pile stacked like cordwood atop the filled-in moat, they probably would’ve stripped him of his gold pourpoint, but he should recognize him bare. Gritting his teeth, he’s just about to dig his heels into his mount and bolt ahead to find his lord and join him when one sound echoes over the murmuring infantry, an unhurried crack and thud as steel bites into a thick oaken door. 

The fragile heartbeat of their last line of defence. Henry draws in a heavy breath as he pulls the rosary over his head, tucking the beads safely under his mail collar.

“It stinks like a festering wound here.” Hanush trots up to Henry. Two other mounts come up alongside him

“It’s time to heal that wound. Once and for all,” Radzig follows, and though Hanush grumbles, Henry’s the barest bit grateful for the well-placed cheer.  

“That is why we’re here. Isn’t it, youngster?” Jobst turns to him.

“Let’s not waste time.” He says, lifting his visor. “We’ll end it, once and for all.”

“Radzig, give the orders.” Jobst looks past him as he nods to his father. 

The Lord of Skalitz’s canters down the line as he gives his speech, each man he passes is left licking their chops for Praguer blood, but from where Henry’s mounted, he can only pick out bits and pieces. Most of it’s lost to the wind and clopping hoofs. That’s fine, the words are for them, Henry doesn’t need anything to stoke his zeal when he draws his sword.

The call to charge rings out above their heads, and he adds his voice to the chorus as they surge down the hill. The Praguers scatter to dig out their weapons but by the time they stumble into lines, Henry’s cavalry has cut through them like wet parchment as they barrel towards the fortress gates. Henry doesn’t stop moving. His mount buckles beneath him, and he vaults ahead, sword raised to tear through the Praguers that have formed up in the outer bailey.

They fall like all the others.

As he works his way through the tower, the battle blurs into a stream of colors and stained steel as his focus narrows to the next man that needs to be run through. He doesn’t say a word. 

The last Praguer slumps to the dust as he pulls his sword free of his chest, and finally, finally, he turns to face the flash of gold that had been whirling just out of reach the entire fight. He’s kneeling, head bent over his bloodied sword as if he’s praying, as if he weren’t the miracle Henry had thumbed miles on the rosary to see.

Their eyes meet over the backs of two corpses, and Henry hears Hans breathe his name as he surges toward him. Christ, his own name has never sounded like that to him before. His mind brushes over a dim memory of passing a preacher shouting down sinners whose names will not be read from the Book of Life. He’d wrinkled his brow and carried on. Henry was a good Christian, but he couldn’t wrap his head around the need quaking through this beggar to hear his name called on Judgement Day. It must be like this, he thinks as he stretches his hand out towards him. 

He can’t manage any words of his own when Hans wraps both hands around his gauntlet. Hands clasped, they sway as they drink in the sight of each other, marveling at the revelation that the other is still breathing. Henry wants to weep, he wants to pull this man to his chest close enough that their ribs form a single cage for their hearts. And God, he wants to kiss him, but there’ll be time enough for that later.

For the first time in what feels like years, he has time to spare.

“You lot took your sweet time.” Zizka’s voice brings him back to earth

“You know our Henry.” Godwin smiles at him. “No doubt stopped off for a beer and some grub.”

“As it happens…” He draws one of the hunks of smoked sausage out of his pack.

“I’ll take that.” The Dry Devil snaps it out his his hand with a muttered thanks. 

All the excitement loosens its grip on the day, and the horizon slowly bruises into dusk. Everyone parts to carry out their calling, Godwin tends to the dead, Katherine and Musa see to the wounded, and Zizka and the Dry Devil sneak off to make plans that will ensure that they won’t be short on either for very long.

Henry finds Hans milling about in the outer bailey, a far-off look in his eye as he taps a grubby fist against his lips. He can practically see the millstone turning in his head, grinding up all the demands Hanush had left him with into worst-case scenarios and plans of escape.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Henry strides up and claps a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Shall I have a look at that wound now?”

“Ah?” Hans turns to him, a smile working through the tension. “Yes, I think that’d be just fine.”

There’s relief in his eyes, but Henry can tell he doesn’t let himself relax all the way. His shoulders are still pulled tight, and his fist is balled up beside his thigh like he’s waiting for another line of attack to break against the walls. Up close, Henry can see the rime of sweat and dust flaking off his skin in patches and how the oily gold of his hair sticks together in slick clumps. He hasn’t even taken his armor off yet. Henry furrows his brow and pulls Hans in a little closer, pressing his nose to his neck and taking a deep whiff.

“Pah!” He staggers back, making sure to stick his tongue out as he clutches his heart. “God’s wounds, you absolutely reek!” 

Hans swats at him, but laughter unbunches his shoulders, and Henry grins up at him from where he’s hunched over pretending to gag.

“Ughhh...don’t remind me.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and tips his head back with a groan. “I kept hoping they’d get the baths back in working order today, but it doesn’t seem to be top of the list for anyone.” 

“That’s not a problem,” Henry says. “We passed a spring on the way here. If you’re alright with me tending to you out of doors, we can get you cleaned up proper?”

“Oh God, finally leaving this fortress for a spell? I could weep!”

“I thought so.” Henry wraps an arm back around his shoulders as he leads them to the stables. “It’s not far.”

They trace the little stream up the hillside until they come upon a little spring. It’s still light when they make it there, a heavy gold lingering in the spaces between the treetops as they kick off their boots.

Henry undresses quickly and tosses his clothes onto a hawthorn branch to scrub later. For now, he sets to peeling the steel from Hans’ body, eyes lingering on the crust of blood around the hole the arrow punched through his cuirass. Hans watches him lazily as Henry thumbs over the puckered metal, a tighter bowstring and a few inches lower, and he’d have lost him.

“I’m not dead, you know.” He sighs, tapping at the wrinkled spot between Henry’s brows.

“I can see that,” Henry smiles softly as he starts in on the buttons of Hans’ pourpoint. “But I let you come a bit closer to meeting the Good Lord than I would’ve liked.”

“Come off it,” Hans dips his toe into the spring to splish some water at him. “How many more times am I going to have to reassure my guardian angel after he pulls me from the jaws of death before he believes me?”

Henry giggles and splashes back. When he blinks away the water clinging to his lashes, Hans is looking at him so fondly that Henry feels his breath stick beneath his swelling heart. He’s one to talk about angels looking like that, he thinks. Hans combs back the locks of gold hair that’ve spilled onto his brow, and Henry’s eyes drag up the line of pale skin that’s opened between his pourpoint. His gaze skips to a stop when it reaches the clump of brown-tinged bandages bound around his collarbone. 

“Christ, who dressed this?” Henry strips off his pourpoint.

“Godwin.”

Tugging off the bandages, he gapes at the state the priest has left him in. The wound looks like it’s barely been washed, no sign of ointment or salve, just clumps of blood and dirt tackying the torn linen.

“Was he drunk?”  

“Hard to tell sometimes,” Hans muses.“But come on, how bad of a job could he have possibly done?”

“You should come to me from now on if you’d like to keep your limbs attached,” Henry mutters as he rinses out the wound. He sucks in a whistling breath before he pulls a skin of moonshine from his pouch.

“I’m not going to lie. This is going to hurt…” He pulls the cork out and considers it for a moment. “...a lot probably.”

“I’m a big boy, Hal.” He tsks and offers up his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get it over with.” 

Henry nods, gritting his teeth as he lets the spirits trickle over the raw flesh. 

“Jesus fuck!” Hans immediately lets out a strangled sob, nails biting into Henry’s shoulders,
but he doesn’t pull away. Henry slots himself further into the space between Hans’ thighs, one hand rubbing little circles over the ties between his braies and hose. 

“Sorry, sorry, it just lasts a second. Hold on.”

“Ahhh fuck…oh God, you should’e warned me!” Hans hisses, but it stutters into a laugh as soon as he opens his eyes and finds Henry sitting there between his legs. 

The evening hums around them as Henry dabs marigold and chamomile onto the wound. The red isn’t curling into the surrounding flesh, but another day with those rags on and it’d be in God’s hands. Hans is content to watch him work, an elbow propped on his knee and face resting in his hand as he drags his fingers through Henry’s hair. Tying off the last strip of clean bandage, Henry sighs and rests his head on Hans’ stomach. He’s content to waste the night in Hans’ lap with the steady rise and fall of his ribs against his cheek, but then the beads pressed between their skin tickle a memory. 

Henry hooks a thumb around the rosary and holds it up. “So are you going to tell me how you got this?” 

“I did promise that, didn't I?” A smile presses up against Hans’ cupped palm. “I found it in the straw of our little cell in Trosky after they dragged you away from me.” 

“Ah.”

“Yes, well, I’m not sure how much good it did for its previous owner, but I lived to see the next sunrise, so I thought it was worth holding onto.”

“Seems it served you well.”

“Aye,” He nods. “Had it close when that building fell on me in Nebakov and twiddled with it while that French cunt was boring me to tears In Maleshov and I made it through everything.”

“Surprised you’d want to give up something that fortunate.”

“Well, I did some thinking not too long ago,” Hans moves to take Henry’s face in his hands, blue eyes warm as candlehearts as he looks upon his squire. “And it might surprise you to know that I’ve come to some conclusions about the nature of our relationship.”

“I’m aware,” Henry presses a grinning kiss into his palm. “But what does that have to do with these?” 

“It seems to me that the only prayer I ever needed answered was that you’d be brought back to me.” Hans winds the rosary around a callused finger, considering each decade as it slides over his knuckle. “And no matter what peril I was in, you always came for me.”

“Of course, I would.”

“I’d hoped it would work both ways.” He catches his lip between his teeth as his thumb stills on one of the Our Father beads. “I thought maybe God would watch over you a little closer if you prayed with it and still ensure you came back safe and whole.”

“I can tell you it didn’t hears any prayers for my own sake these last few days.”

“Fair enough, that chapel next to my room didn’t hear any for my safety either.” 

Hans’ tugs on the rosary still interlaced between his fingers until Henry’s lips meet his. This time, there’s no urgency in their kiss. Henry gladly rises on his knees, water rippling around his waist as he retraces the path he took far too quickly down Hans’ neck that night in Suchdol.