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The comfort of stone walls, Hans had lately decided, was much overstated when winter had teeth enough to bite through them—and when fever, unlike any sensible enemy, had no respect at all for gates. 

Winter, at least, could be made to retreat a little. It could be fought with hearths stacked high with crackling firewood, bowls of broth that kept the hands warm, and thick cloaks and furs to defend everything else. 

But the fever crept in where no man saw it, settled into breath and bedding, and by the fifth day men had begun speaking of it in lowered voices. Hans had heard enough of such talk to grow bored of it, and just enough to grow uneasy, when the shouting began at the gate.

He wore no cloak—only a padded doublet over wool and linen—but that didn’t stop him from throwing open the door to see what the racket was about.

One glance—everything in him going cold—and then he was rushing down the stairs, reaching Pebbles’ side before any of the other men could decide what to do with Henry’s slumped form across her back.

“Henry,” he called sharply.

Henry flinched, barely. Then blue eyes blinked open, bright and dazed, and stared up at him.

Merciful God. At least he was not unconscious.

Pebbles steamed beneath him, her breaths hard, but she stood patient as Hans laid a hand to Henry’s neck, nearly cupping his jaw—and frowned at the heat coming off his skin. His cloak was stiff with frost, the hem lined with slush.

But he was not shivering.

With a strained groan, Henry pushed himself upright in the saddle. “Hans,” he mumbled. “Sir,” he added a moment later, like an afterthought, though his frown betrayed an honest lapse rather than his usual cheek.

The knot beneath Hans’ ribs tightened.

But before he could do or say anything, Henry began listing toward him—eyes rolling back as he crumbled. Hans caught him with a grunt, then a shout, and several men stepped forward to help ease Henry down from the saddle. Hans, refusing to let him go, ended up in the snow muddied by boots and hooves, Henry out cold against him.

“Physician,” Hans said tersely, clutching Henry as he looked around the courtyard. “Now.”

~

“Sorry,” Henry muttered later, when the physician had come and gone. His downturned mouth gave him a pouty look that made it a little easier to breathe after the scare in the courtyard. “Just… wanted to come home.”

“Well,” Hans said, “next time you feel such a touching desire, perhaps do Pebbles the courtesy of giving her some direction.” 

Henry dragged a sheepish hand through his hair, mussing it further. “Don’t think she needed much from me by then.” 

Hans sat back, arms folded, and narrowed his eyes at Henry, who ducked his head. “And thank God for that.”

The fever had not loosened its hold on him. The skin beneath his eyes was puffy and reddened, his hair damp at the temples. Sweat tracked down the side of his face, caught briefly at his chin, then dropped onto the blanket and vanished into the wool. He looked entirely too sickly in the warm glow of candlelight.

The physician had called for a fever tonic and plenty of rest.

“Better yet,” Hans said, reaching out to clasp Henry’s hand between his own, “next time, find lodgings on the road where you can rest, rather than braving the elements when you’re already ailing.”

“It wasn’t this bad when I rode by Talmberg,” Henry grumbled.

“Coming from you,” Hans said lightly, “that’s no comfort at all.”

Henry snorted—then broke into a cough. Hans drew near to thump him gently on the back, hoping to help ease it. Once the fit ceased, he cupped Henry’s nape and caressed him there with his thumb; gentle strokes he knew worked faster than any lullaby—or fever tonic.

Sure enough, before long, Henry’s eyelids were drooping. 

“Sleep, you lout,” Hans murmured, watching him struggle against the pull of sleep. “You need it.”

“Don’t want to,” Henry said, petulant. Another almost-pout as he looked up at Hans through dark lashes. “I came home because I missed you, not to sleep.”

“Fortuna favours you,” Hans said, pinching lightly at his nape before rising, just to see Henry’s face scrunch up, “for I am the answer to your prayers.”

“Careful, my lord,” Henry said, mouth twitching. He scooted over when Hans nudged him. “Getting dangerously close to blasphemy, that.”

“Ha. Forgive my jest, Lord,” said Hans, crossing himself with a heavenward glance, “and all the times I crossed swords with my squire.”

Henry gave a helpless laugh, then tried to choke it down behind one hand: it slipped free all the same. He shoved at Hans as Hans settled on the bed with him—too narrow for the both of them, but they had made do with less before—though he came easily when Hans looped an arm around him and pulled him close.

“Rest,” Hans said, guiding Henry’s head to his shoulder.

Henry nestled closer, then went limp, sighing happily despite the heat of his skin. “You shouldn’t be here. Fever might pass to you.”

“I’ll be fine,” Hans said, patting the top of his head. “After all, I’ve the sense to stay indoors when there’s snow up to your calves outside.”

“Aye, aye,” Henry mumbled against his neck, his breath hot and damp. Too tired to argue, by the sound of it. “Be quiet so I can sleep.”

Hans huffed, but did as bid, raking his fingers through Henry’s hair and scratching his scalp.

Within no time at all, Henry was fast asleep on his shoulder.

Hans stayed awake a while yet, until the warmth and Henry’s breathing and the fright of the day drew him under too.

~

Henry was still asleep when Hans woke with a crick in his neck. He rolled his shoulders, grimacing, then went back to considering Henry as he kneaded hard at his nape in the hope of easing the night’s strain.

At some point between Hans falling asleep and now, Henry had ended up lying down. He was curled around Hans as best he could, his head pillowed on Hans’ thigh, lips parted around thin, uneven breaths. 

There was a faint crease between his brows that must have mirrored Hans’ own as he trailed a finger along the bridge of Henry’s nose before pressing his palm to his forehead. The unnatural warmth there drew his brows tighter. He moved down to the side of Henry’s throat, mouth pursing as he kept searching.

Everywhere he touched, Henry ran hot, as though the forge fires he so often bent over now burned beneath his skin.

Yet he was shivering. 

Hans scooted to the edge of the bed, then gathered the blanket Henry—idiot—had thrown off sometime during the night and tucked him in. He needed rest after yesterday’s exhausting ride and the cold, and Hans would sooner stride naked into the Sasau river than wake him.

He threw logs into the hearth and waited for the lazy embers to latch onto them. Soon, fire licked up the dry wood, crackling to life. Hans stayed before it a while longer, until the warmth had chased the lingering chill from his own limbs.

With a glance over his shoulder at Henry—sleeping soundly—he fetched another blanket to lay over him.

The more comfort, the better.

~

Hans avoided Hanush all morning, but he had less fortune with Jitka.

“How fares he?” she asked, infuriatingly polite as ever, one hand resting lightly over the swell of her belly.

At Hans’ stare, she cleared her throat. “Henry. The servants gossip, as you well know.” He diligently ignored the pointed arch of her brow. “Is he still ailing?”

Hans threw his arms wide. “Do you see him?”

Her mouth flattened at his tone. “I heard he had taken the fever.”

“Yes.”

She went quiet—the wrong sort, the thoughtful sort. Something passed over her face.

“My lord,” she said, her voice kept carefully even, though the hand at her belly tightened, then smoothed over the fabric. “Should you—” 

“Good day, my lady.”

He swept past her before she could finish the thought.

~

He was back with Henry a little past noon. 

Henry was still fast asleep, so Hans tended to the fire. Then he checked the shutters for leaks. Some of the candles had burned down to stubs, so he lit new ones. He tidied the room, fetched a book and another blanket—for himself this time—then dragged a chair across the floor to Henry’s bedside.

There he settled down to read.

By the time Henry finally roused, Hans had turned a single page, and that only after staring at the same line long enough to decide the fault lay with the book.

He nearly tossed it aside when Henry blinked up at him, remembering himself at the last moment and leaving it shut in his lap.

“Hal,” he said, bending forward in the same breath to lay his palm against the side of Henry’s neck, damp with sweat. “How are you feeling?”

“Great,” Henry croaked, managing a little grin before he broke into coughs. “Sorry. Water—?”

Hans was already rising. He poured water from the jug into a cup, then brought it back to Henry. Henry took it eagerly, a little spilling over his chin as he tipped the cup back and drained it.

Hans snorted, entirely too fond as he sat back down on the chair. “Messy.”

“Forgive me, my lord,” Henry said, lowering the cup and smiling at him, eyes bright but clear. “Fever’s got everything muddled.”

“Then rest more.”

Hans reached out to ruffle Henry’s hair, but Henry’s reflexes were faster than the rest of him: he caught Hans’ hand instead, trapping it between his own.

“I’ll rest,” he said. “Later.”

“Sooner than that,” Hans insisted, though he didn’t fight it when Henry moved to sit upright. “I won’t have you fainting on me again.”

Henry cocked his head—the sight so reminiscent of that beast of his that Hans hid a smile behind his hand—a frown marring his face. “Did I—? Ah. I remember. I think.”

“Mm. You did. Your whole weight and armour to boot, mind. I’ve got bruises.”

Henry winced. “Aye?”

Hans rolled his eyes. “Haven’t checked, blacksmith’s boy. I’ve been a bit preoccupied, as you might imagine.” 

“Aye.” Henry grinned, but it was soft around the edges. “Never liked winter much, except to lie in wait for my friends in Skalitz to come round the corner. Bianca used to shriek loud enough to wake even drunk Petr when I shoved snow down her neck.”

His smile turned wistful. It was rare he spoke of Skalitz at all, so Hans kept quiet, only working his thumb free to stroke over Henry’s knuckles.

“When we were younger, we’d dare each other to try and cross the frozen river,” Henry continued, gaze gone distant. “Reckless youth and all. We’d pelt each other with snow until we were drenched. Then we’d gather round the fire, half-frozen and shivering from the cold. Ma would feed us broth to warm us up while Pa stood back, shaking his head. They’d both be smiling though.”

He looked down, worrying at his lower lip. He was silent long enough that Hans considered changing the subject, but then he shook his head.

“I miss it,” he whispered. “I miss them.”

Hans had few childhood winters worth remembering. What came to him was mostly cold air, cold stone, and servants with careful hands who never lingered once their work was done. A friendly smile had been rare enough. Play rarer still. 

“I know,” Hans said, though he did not, not truly. 

Of all winters, he remembered the last best—not only for being most recent, but for being the first he had shared with Henry. After the harrowing months of summer and autumn, that winter had been some much-needed peace. Just the two of them, away from Rattay. No Hanush or Jitka, no demands or expectations.

“I never much liked winters either,” Hans said. “But the last one with you was my favourite. Perhaps I might even prefer winter now.”

“No,” Henry said. “You love hunting too much to prefer winter over any other season.”

Hans snorted, smirking. “Hm. I suppose you’re right. Hunting does provide ample excuse to sneak away with my squire.”

Henry chuckled. “Aye. Suppose it does.” 

His voice lowered. “When the snow’s melted, spring upon us once more… I say we steal away, first chance we get. Find some camp far from the roads…” He glanced up at Hans, the smile unfurling on his lips downright impish. “Hunter and hunted. See how long you can run, my lord.”

“Impertinent,” Hans said, though his interest was piqued. “Who says I’m the one running?”

Henry’s grin widened. “Who says I’m the one chasing?”

Ah.

“Why, Hal,” Hans purred, hooking his knuckles under Henry’s jaw and drawing him closer. “Not worried about getting caught?”

“As I recall,” Henry said, and his tone already held enough barely restrained laughter to more than justify Hans narrowing his eyes, “you were the one the Cumans tied—”

He broke off abruptly, wrenching his head away from Hans as he coughed. Hans sobered at once and rubbed his back, waiting out the fit with his mouth pressed thin.

“Sakra,” Henry said when it was over, his voice rough. Tears had gathered at the corners of his eyes; he wiped them away with the back of his hand, sighing. “Well. Spring’s still far off.”

“Regrettably.” 

Hans stood to put a hand on Henry’s shoulder, coaxing him down until he was on his back.

“Rest now, Hal.”

“Aye,” he said, nodding, his easy acquiescence telling on his fatigue even more than his heavy eyes. “Sleep the winter away, and it’s spring.”

“No one ever fell asleep talking,” Hans scolded lightly, even as he stroked Henry’s arm. “So shut up.”

“Mm. No. You’ve done it.” Henry’s eyes slipped shut. “Twice. At least.”

“No one will believe you.”

Henry smiled into the pillow, shuffling closer to the edge of the bed—to Hans. Hans, helpless to deny him, came as close as he could.

“Reckon it’ll be harder to find anyone who won’t,” Henry murmured, then coughed once into the pillow. “Ugh.”

“Quiet now, dearest Hal,” Hans said, pinching Henry’s arm and grinning when it startled a laugh from him. “Sleep, or I’ll knock you out myself.”

Henry was still chuckling. “Aye, aye. Whatever my lord wants.”

“Right you are,” Hans said, returning to the slow caress of Henry’s arm.

And, like last time, Henry fell asleep soon enough.

~

Henry would have slept through supper had Hans not—reluctantly—roused him long enough to coax some broth into him, followed by another fever tonic. Then he was asleep once more.

Later, when Hans crawled ever so carefully into bed with him, he woke again.

“Hans?” he murmured.

“I’m here,” Hans said, pulling Henry to his chest.

Henry came easily, sighing. Still much too warm, but at least Hans could steal some of that warmth for himself, the late hour making him tired and cold despite the fire crackling away in the hearth.

“You shouldn’t,” Henry mumbled, though he made no move to pull away. “Might catch…”

“I shan’t catch anything but a poor temper if you insist on scolding me half-asleep.”

Henry huffed faintly against his throat. “Dreamed…” he murmured, blinking drowsily. “That you… Then Ma… Mutt…”

Hans hummed, patting his head. “Go back to sleep, Hal.”

So Henry did.

~

The next morning, Hans summoned the physician after listening too long to Henry’s breathing, each breath shallower and more laboured than it had been yesterday. The ache behind Hans’ eyes did not ease as the physician stood bent over Henry.

It was only the poor sleep. Two nights of it would sour any man’s temper and leave his limbs heavy. 

Kneading his temples with his fingertips, Hans finally snapped, “Well? How is he?”

The man gave him a glance before focusing once more on Henry. He hummed, then stepped back, arms folding across his chest.

“Too much heat in the blood,” he said. “It would be best to draw it out. However…”

“Yes?” 

“I worry about his strength.”

Hans looked at Henry, shivering beneath three blankets, and clenched his jaw. “Then what do you suggest? Plainly, he needs something other than rest and fever tonics.”

The physician tapped two fingers against his forearm, considering.

“Stronger draughts,” he said after a moment. “Warm cloths to the chest. He should be kept propped when the breathing troubles him, and the linens changed whenever the sweat soaks through. Burn rosemary or juniper—and be sure to air the room when the fire is high.” 

He looked at Hans then, solemn enough that Hans already disliked what he hadn’t yet put into words.

“The sickness sits heavy in the room, my lord. You should not—”

“If you’ve nothing else helpful to say,” Hans cut in at once, “I advise you say nothing more at all.”

The physician’s mouth flattened. 

Hans went past him to adjust the damp cloth on Henry’s forehead. He would have preferred to crawl into bed and cradle him close, but servants talking was one thing—quite another was leaving no room for doubt.

Hans straightened and glanced back at the physician. “Return this evening for another examination,” he said. “Until then: dismissed.”

“My lord,” the physician muttered. He looked poised to continue speaking, but then seemingly thought better of it. With a curt dip of his head, he turned and left.

Hans wasted little time before gently coaxing Henry toward the wall, making room enough to join him in the bed. The chamber was chilly despite the closed shutters and roaring fire, but the blankets were heavy and comforting, and Henry was warm. If the physician were too hesitant to bleed him, then Hans could draw some of that heat into himself.

Balance it out.

Henry stirred, mumbling something that might have been Hans’ name. Might have been nothing at all. Hans answered anyway.

“I’m here, Hal,” he whispered, gathering him close. “Here. Not leaving.”

Henry sighed, then went quiet but for the slight rasp of his breathing.

Hans held him tighter still.

He would only close his eyes for a short while.

~

Hanush had been waiting for him that evening. Of course he had.

“You look a right mess,” he said, looking Hans over with open disapproval. 

“Deepest apologies, Uncle,” Hans drawled, wishing himself anywhere else. Preferably back in bed with Henry. It was damned cold. “I shall see that rectified at once. If that were all—”

“Be serious, boy.” 

Hans stopped, jaw tightening. “What?” 

“You’ve been skulking about that chamber for two days like a whipped hound.” Hanush’s eyes narrowed. “You are a noble. Leave Radzig’s boy to sweat out the fever.” 

“Your concern is duly noted,” Hans said dryly.

“You are not some lovesick maiden, Capon.”

“And yet you scold me like one,” Hans said. “Shall I swoon as well?”

“Enough,” Hanush snapped. “This is not all about you or your delicate sensibilities. You have a child on the way. An heir, if God wills it. Try behaving like it.” 

“And when I have my heir, will you hand over my inheritance?” Hans spat, hands clenching at his sides. “As you promised when I was saddled with my wife? Or any of the other times you dangled what is mine by right in a bid to keep me under control?”

“I will give it once you prove you have the shoulders for it,” Hanush near bellowed. “Which, plainly, is no time soon, or you would not be risking your own health to pant at the bedside of some peasant boy.”

“That peasant boy is Sir Radzig’s son,” Hans hissed, taking a step forward. “How would your dear friend like to hear you brush him aside so easily?”

Hanush barked a laugh. “Henry’s a bastard. Radzig knows this well.”

“Aye?” Hans said. “And yet I am almost of the mind that Radzig will sooner legitimise Henry than you will surrender what is rightfully mine. Funny, that.”

“Pah.” Hanush waved a hand. “Radzig will do no such thing. Henry is a good lad—certainly more deserving than you at present—but nothing useful would come of it. They are both better off as they are.”

For a moment, Hans had no answer.

That was the worst of it. Not Hanush’s cruelty, not the sneer tucked into every word, but the treacherous little place in Hans that heard it and knew it for true. Henry was more deserving. Henry had always been more deserving, with his rough hands and stubborn honour and the infuriating ease with which men came to trust him. Give Henry a name, a keep, a lordship, and he would carry it better than Hans had carried anything in his life.

The thought struck sharp behind his eyes. The corridor tipped, candlelight flaring white at the edges of his sight. It was over almost before it began, Hans needing only to shake his head to steady himself once more. 

“How convenient for you,” he said at last, “that your judgement always finds me wanting.”  

Hanush’s jaw worked.

Hans smiled at him, thin and bitter. “Take care, Uncle. What you withhold from me is still mine.” 

Then he turned away before Hanush could answer, because his head ached, and his limbs were heavy, and Henry was alone.

~

It was that night, lying in bed with Henry once more beneath a mountain of blankets and pressed close to that feverish warmth, that Hans understood his own shivering was likely not fatigue, but Henry’s sickness taking him as well.

At least they were together in it. 

“Hans,” Henry mumbled. He fumbled blindly between them until he found Hans’ jaw and feebly pressed his fingers to it. “Hans, ’m cold.”

He was trembling in Hans’ arms. Hans would not have been surprised to hear his teeth chattering, had he let himself listen. Instead he rubbed up and down Henry’s back, his arm, wherever he could reach.

“I’ve you,” he swore. “It’s just the fever. It’ll burn out soon enough.”

“Mmm.” Henry sighed. “Ma…”

Hans caught Henry’s hand and pressed a kiss to the knuckles before laying it on the mattress between them, in what little space was left.

“Audentes fortuna iuvat, Hal. Remember?”

Henry had already fallen back asleep.

Good. He needed the rest.

“Damn fever,” Hans muttered.

It was the last thing he remembered saying before sleep dragged him under too.

~

He was roused by thunder.

No. Not that.

He squinted into the dimness.

Fists. On the door. Someone knocking loud enough to split his head.

He groaned.

“Lord Capon!”

“Away!” Hans shouted, then winced. “Christ.”

No shouting, then. Quiet was better.

He pushed himself up on one elbow, ignoring the spin of the room to focus on Henry instead. That was less nauseating, at least.

The blankets were soaked through. Disgusting. Hans huddled closer despite it. Henry coughed wetly once, then again, then several times in a row. Hans’ throat itched in answer. Henry’s brows were drawn tight, as though in pain.

Hans didn’t want him in pain. He shouldn’t be in pain, damn it. He was in bed. He was warm. He was safe. Not fighting bandits or false kings. Only illness, and Henry had beaten much worse odds.

His Henry. His Hal.

Hans pressed his forehead to Henry’s neck, breathing in sweat and heat and whatever foulness the physician had prattled on about.

It didn’t matter.

Then his stomach turned.

He stumbled out of bed, catching himself on the frame before he fell outright.

Swooned, his mind supplied, absurdly.

A laugh caught in his throat. Hanush would throw a fit. Serve him right.

It was dreadfully cold away from Henry.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his mouth. Fuck, he might actually be sick where he stood.

“God’s blood, you fool.”

He blinked.

Looked up. 

Squinted at Hanush. 

When had he come in? Had Hans summoned him? Think of the devil, and all that. It would hardly surprise him.

“Out,” Hanush barked.

Hans winced.

“Not so loud,” he muttered. “Christ, you’d think—”

He clutched the bedframe, his gut rolling.

Miserable.

Hanush seized him by the arm.

Hans fought him, or tried to, digging his heels in, but the floor seemed to slide treacherously beneath him. The room lurched. 

Hanush’s hand tightened.

Then there was clean linen beneath him, too cold no matter how many blankets they piled atop it. 

Henry missing.

Hans turned toward the empty space beside him, searching for heat, for weight, for a breath against his throat.

There was none.

“Don’t even think about it,” Hanush said, somewhere above him.

Hans meant to answer. Perhaps he did.

He did not hear what came of it.

~

Henry was not beside him when he woke again.

That was wrong.

The linen smelled of lye and lavender, not of sweat or smoke or Henry.

He sat up.

The world tilted, then righted itself.

Good.

He got out of bed.

Servants whispered, sending him long looks, but none dared stop him. Any guard who stepped into his path, he sent away with a withering glare and a sharper word.

By the time he reached Henry’s chamber, his nightshirt clung damply to his back and his legs shook. Or his hands? 

Still, Henry was there.

Abed, at least. Resting as he ought.

Hans could not remember a time he had been this still for so long.

“Hal,” he said, sinking to his knees at Henry’s bedside when he suddenly felt too heavy to remain standing. He put his elbows on the bed and leaned over Henry, brushing a finger over his forehead. “Hey. Hey, Hal. Henry.”

Blue eyes blinked open and found him after a long moment.

His breathing was better. Hans could barely hear it.

“Hans,” Henry murmured, eyes slipping closed once more. “Hans…”

Hans found his hand under the blankets.

“Here,” he said, laying his head on the mattress next to Henry’s. “Here, Hal. Always here.”

Hans felt cold, but Henry was warm under the blankets. Would he also get cold if Hans joined him in the bed? 

At his side would have to be enough, then. At least until warmth returned to Hans. 

He squeezed Henry’s hand gently.

Enough, then.

~

“Sir Hans.”

Someone was shaking him.

“Sir Hans.”

Hans groaned. “Mm?”

“Go back to your bed.”

He opened his eyes, blinking, then craned his neck and looked up.

Radzig stood above him, hands clasped behind his back, his face swimming in and out of focus. 

“You will do him no good collapsing here,” he said quietly, gesturing to Henry with his chin. “Best you rest instead.”

Hans looked at Henry. He seemed easier in sleep, no frown marring his forehead. Instead, Hans felt his own brows draw tight at the thought of leaving.

“Do not fret. Henry will not be alone.” A hand clasped Hans’ shoulder. “Let me sit with him a while.”

“Aye,” Hans murmured. “He’ll like that.”

Radzig was silent a moment before offering his hand.

“Here,” he said, helping Hans up from the floor and steadying him when he swayed. “You must rest if you mean to have strength enough to fight the fever.”

He supported Hans all the way to the door. On the other side stood Hanush, arms folded. His expression tightened at the sight of Hans.

“Leave him be, Hanush,” Radzig said, something worn in his tone. “See him safely back.”

Hans glanced at him. Radzig was looking at Hanush now, not at him.

Whatever passed between them made Hanush take Hans by the arm, grip tightening briefly. Radzig withdrew into the room once more.

“Anything you need, friend,” Hanush said after a moment.

Radzig inclined his head, then sat down in the chair beside Henry that had not been there before, his focus settling wholly on Henry. 

The door shut, leaving Henry hidden behind it.

Hans listed forward. Hanush caught him.

“Careful,” he muttered, waiting until Hans could stand on his own before pulling him along. “Have some sense and stay in bed this time, Hans. Think of your heir.”

Hans did not want to think of his heir. He wanted only to be with Henry.

But Radzig had come. Radzig would sit with him. Henry had his father at his side.

That had to be enough.

Then he was in bed once more. A cup was put to his mouth until he opened and drank whatever was in it. Some of it went down wrong, and he coughed first to catch his breath, then for another reason entirely.

It was cold again. He was shivering. Heated stones were tucked close, blankets piled high atop him. A cloth was laid on his forehead.

There was the physician again.

Hanush, frowning. 

Servants, bringing linens and herbs and broths he could not keep down.

His eyes were too heavy to keep open, so he didn’t.

~

There was a hand on his wrist.

The physician’s voice.

Pain in the crook of his arm, sharp and mean.

Blood ran dark into a basin.

“Lie still, my lord. The heat must be drawn off.”

Hans groaned.

“If me,” he said, or tried to say, “then him too.”

No one answered.

~

He woke muddled.

His head pounded. His mouth tasted foul. It hurt his eyes to keep them open.

“Easy,” someone said.

Henry?

“Hal,” Hans murmured.

Quiet.

~

Steel clashing. Shouting.

A blast of light, then darkness, dust in his mouth. Stone pressing in, weight above him, no room to move. He was trapped. Buried. Stuck.

Henry was somewhere beyond it.

“Henry,” he cried. “Henry, for the love of God—”

~

Walls.

Nothing but walls. No air, no sky, no door, only stone closing in until his chest could not rise beneath it.

“I cannot breathe,” he gasped. “Please—someone—”

~

Voices.

“Not now,” Hanush said, low and sharp.

“He will ask.”

“Let him sleep.”

A pause.

“Sir Radzig sat with him until the end.”

The end of what?

Hans tried to open his eyes. The room swam, grey and gold and too bright at the edges. There was a shape beside the bed. A hand on his shoulder. Not Henry’s.

“Henry,” he said.

Someone made a sound. A hush?

Then the dark took him back.

~

He woke with a gasp, Henry’s name on his tongue.

He needed to see him.

“Henry,” he rasped. “Henry, Henry—”

A hand came to his shoulder. “Steady, Capon.”

Hans turned to stare at Father Godwin.

“Where is he?” he demanded. “Where’s Henry?”

Godwin’s expression shuttered. “Sir Hans…”

“I need to see him,” he said, throwing off the blankets to sit up, to stand. “I need—Henry—”

“Lad—”

The room spun. He stumbled, edges greying, hearing nothing but the rush of blood—

~

When he woke again, the pain had already lodged deep beneath his ribs.

“Henry,” he gasped.

“Hans,” said Hanush.

Hans looked at him, and regretted it.

“No,” he begged.

Hanush dragged a hand down his face. He looked old. Old and tired and very far from cruel.

“He is gone, Hans.”

“No,” Hans said. “No—where is he? Uncle—”

“Henry is gone.”

“No.”

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and drew a shuddering breath. It set off a coughing fit that tore through his chest, but that pain was nothing beside the other.

“No,” he moaned. “No, I was just there—he was better, I swear it—”

Hanush said nothing. 

Henry couldn’t be gone. 

He couldn’t. 

~

“Was he alone?”

A sigh. “No, lad.”

Hans lifted himself onto his elbow, then fell back down with a hiss.

There was a clean bandage on his arm. 

They had taken blood from him twice.

Not enough, evidently.

He sat up, quick enough that fog rose to his head. He snarled when a hand immediately pushed him back down.

“Let me go,” he said. “By God, if you don’t—”

Godwin looked at him with pity.

He did not want pity.

He wanted Henry.

Tears welled in his eyes. He blinked them away.

He sat up again, batting away Godwin’s hand—batting away both of them—

“Let me go to him!” he cried, and the shout broke into a cough before he could say more. He fell back against the bedding, exhausted despite having done nothing worthwhile at all. “Father—”

“I’m sorry, lad.” 

Hans buried his face in the pillow, but it did little to quiet the sound that tore out of him. 

~

He heard them talking about a grave.

“Don’t bury him yet,” he whimpered.

No one answered him.

“He’ll be cold.”

~

After that, death became a matter of waiting.

Hans understood it with the same strange clarity that came to him between fever dreams, bright and simple and impossible to argue with. 

The sickness had taken Henry. It had settled into Hans next. There was sense in that. Henry had only gone ahead, and Hans was following as quickly as his own stubborn body allowed. 

Godwin prayed. The physician muttered. Hanush barked at servants who moved too slowly.

None of it mattered.

The fever would do what it had come to do.

Hans waited for the pain to sharpen into something final. Waited for his breath to grow thin enough that Godwin would begin talking about last rites. Waited for Hanush’s hand on his shoulder, for the blessed dark that would not give him back.

If the fever had claimed Henry, it would claim Hans, too.

It had to.

~

But the fever began to loosen.

The shivering stopped first. Then the fire no longer seemed quite so far away. Broth stayed down. The physician’s visits grew shorter. Hanush stopped looking at him with something akin to concern.

Worst of all, Jitka came.

One hand resting over the swell of her belly, pale with worry but near enough to prove what no one had dared say aloud.

The fever would not take him.

“Get out,” Hans said.

Jitka stilled.

“My lord—”

“Out!”

She fled.

Hans flung the blankets off and got out of bed. Dizziness struck at once, and he felt as though a horse had trampled him, body sore, muscles weak.

But his body was healing.

His cursed, cowardly, treacherous body was healing.

The fever had taken Henry, but it had refused Hans.

Why?

He hurled a bowl through the room, broth spilling everywhere before it broke against the wall, shards flying wide. Already his chest heaved from the effort, the illness reluctant to release him, yet not merciful enough to claim him fully.

His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor.

There, wretched and hollowed, he wept until it hurt to breathe, until he had no more tears to give and his voice had all but gone.

Henry had died.

Hans had not been there with him.

Henry was gone. 

If grief could kill a man, Hans would already be dead.

~

The fever didn’t kill him, but it robbed him of all his strength. 

He woke one day with a clear enough mind, but it took another two before he could get out of bed without a dizzy spell sending him back down onto the edge of it. Even then, he could only walk the length of the room before breath failed him and his knees began to shake.

By then, Radzig had taken Henry to Skalitz.

To lay him with his mother and father under the linden tree, they said. Gently, as though gentleness would make the words anything other than cruel.

Henry had fought illness and winter to come home on Pebbles’ back, and still they had carried him away while Hans slept.

The road had been too hard for Hans. 

He had not been asked. 

He collapsed more than sat onto the bed, hands clenched into fists atop the bedding, chest constricting as he tried to breathe through the shards in his throat.

He had missed it.

The last duty. The last farewell. The last place in all the world where he might have stood beside Henry, and even that had passed without him.

He should have called for his cloak. His horse. Men enough to hold him upright in the saddle, if that were what it took.

Skalitz was not so far.

Only his body would betray him before he made it farther than the gates. It had not given itself to the fever, so why would it carry him to where he needed most?

The window stood nearer.

He gritted his teeth, then pushed off the bed once more.

One stride. Two.

Three.

Four.

He leaned hard against the windowsill, breath scraping thinly in his chest, and looked down into the courtyard.

And there—Pebbles. 

Unsaddled. Riderless. Head low among the other horses.

She had carried Henry home. All that way through cold and fever and dark, she had carried him home.

And now she stood without him.

Hans turned from the window.

He had to get down there.

The way took longer than it should have. He stopped once against the wall, then again where the stairs turned, each pause longer than the last. By the time he reached the lower step, sweat had gathered beneath his collar and his legs felt hollow beneath him. 

Still, at last, the courtyard.

The cold struck first. Then the smell of wet straw, horse, stone, and winter mud. 

Pebbles lifted her head when he came near. He laid a hand against her neck, where the winter coat grew thick and warm beneath his palm.

“Good girl,” he tried to say.

Nothing came of it.

From beneath the stable eaves, Mutt came trotting, ears lifting at the sight of him.

Hans held out his other hand.

Mutt pressed his cold nose into it, then looked past him. Toward the stairs. Toward the gate. Toward any place Henry ought to come from.

After a moment, he sat down beside Hans.

Hans swallowed against the ache in his throat. 

Pebbles’ warmth remained beneath his palm. Mutt’s small weight settled against his boot. Rain hung sharp and cold in the air. Smoke curled from the kitchen fires, thin and grey against the courtyard walls. Voices lowered around him, giving his grief a wide berth, as though it were another sickness in the air. 

Henry was gone, and everything that loved him had been left behind.