Chapter Text
"...damn obstinate—!"
It’s a racket of sounds more suited for some of the blackwater inns Henry has had the… fortune of visiting, and not for the wall of Rattay’s upper castle. When one shout is followed by an even stronger bellowing, Henry thinks that not even those inns had been witness to such noises. A battlefield, he decides, while a slow smile creeps up on his face.
He’s standing by Lord Hanush’s office, where said battle is currently happening between uncle and nephew. He knows he should make himself scarce, but Hans had asked him to accompany him to answer Lord Hanush's summons, had he not? It would stand to reason that he should wait for his friend to come out.
Leaving would certainly be considered more rude than just eavesdropping, right? Besides, it’s not like he’s actually trying to make out what the commotion is about; it’s just that Hans had promised a whole roasted chicken for Henry as a reward for whatever small favor he had done to his lord the past day.
(If Henry remembers the blinding smile Hans threw his way for simply fetching an old parchment along with some ink, well, that’s between Mutt and himself).
“—no proper way—!” Another shout brings Henry’s attention back. He stretches his arms behind his back in an attempt to fend off the cramping caused by standing still for such a long time. If that brings him near to the closed door, well, that’s only an unfortunate coincidence.
“—unbelievable—!” Henry recognizes Hans’ voice, which edges with clear frustration. “—child—” and “gorging!” come next, but even with how loud they are, the room must be big enough for the words not to reach him clearly.
The shouting match rages on.
One of the castle guards rounds the corner and slows at the sight of Henry lingering outside the door. He gives him a questioning look, however, before Henry can offer an explanation, another roar from Sir Hanush rattles the timbered walls.
Understanding dawns on the guard's face.
He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer under his breath before making himself scarce, no doubt eager to be well away when the door finally opens.
If Henry possessed a lick of sense, he'd follow the man's example.
Instead, he clings to the thought of the roasted chicken promised for supper. With any luck, Hans would trade his temper for a mug of ale before long.
“Enough!” Hanush’s voice rings clearly, and Henry despairs at the suspicion that he may not be fortunate enough.
“—Henry—” His name reaches his ears, and Henry perks up. It’s soon followed by “squire”, making Henry very tempted to press his ears against the thick oaken door. When he remembers the possibility of another guard passing by, he thinks better of it.
Still, the shouts become clearer, and when they’re accompanied by heavy thumping, Henry reckons it’s because they have moved closer to the door.
“Perhaps when you start acting like a lord instead of a brat!” Sir Hanush’s voice is filled with barely contained rage, which only means—
“Stop treating me like one, then, and let me prove I can do this!” Yes, just as he fears, Hans’ emotions are running just as fervently.
There’s a heavy sigh before the match continues. “That’s out of the question. I don’t want to hear more about this nonsense.”
A silence follows, just for a while. “It’s a perfectly reasonable request, Uncle.” Hans' words come quick and clipped, as though he'd bitten them off before they could grow any longer.
Henry straightens as footsteps approach the door. Before it opens, Sir Hanush delivers one last lash.
"And you will do as I say!"
Hans had always insisted Sir Hanush would sooner bite off his own tongue than surrender the last word. Henry had laughed then, for he knew of another certain lord who suffered from the very same vice. The memory doesn't seem nearly as amusing when Hans storms from the chamber.
The peppery red on his face travels sideways to his ears, accompanied by the thin line of Hans’ pressed lips. If Henry were a little more dramatic, he would swear there’s a storm raging in the blue of Hans’ eyes, turning them a deeper gray. Hans doesn’t turn to look at him, and instead, goes directly towards the stairs, his steps thundering in the silence that finds Rattay again.
Henry watches him go, indecision rooting him to the spot. Hans reaches the stairs before coming to an abrupt halt. For a heartbeat, he says nothing, simply waiting. Even from across the hall, Henry recognizes that infuriating tilt of his chin, his nose angled ever so slightly toward the heavens.
"Well, aren't you coming?"
A huff escapes Henry’s mouth, and he’s chagrined to realize it’s more instinct than purpose, as his annoyance is barely to be found.
Little lordlings and their whims, Henry thinks as he falls into step beside him.
Hans says nothing more. They descend the narrow wooden staircase shoulder to shoulder, bumping into one another at every turn. Henry could have hung back and let Hans take the stairs first, spared them both the awkward jostling, but when the young lord offers no complaint, Henry sees little reason to.
The walk through Pirkstein passes in silence.
Beside him, Hans' shoulders remain drawn tight, the muscles beneath his pourpoint rigid enough that Henry half expects them to snap.
Hans enjoys the sound of his own voice far too much, always filling the air around them with chatter, quipping, or idle complaints in equal measure. When he grows bored of his own words, he turns that necessity to Henry, wanting to hear about his adventures and misdeeds in equal measure. It’s not until he has wrung every detail from his mouth that Hans grows sated, and even then, most often than not, he finds reason to keep Henry around.
Again, Henry finds no reason to object.
Still, there are moments where words elude them. Or rather, when they’re not necessary. Henry thinks back to the night they had shared more wine than was wise between two men, where laughter had come as easily as breathing. When Henry had caught himself staring at the lone crimson droplet that had escaped from Hans’ mouth, tracing a sinful path down his chin. Henry had wanted to chase it with his tongue, and wasn’t that a revelation.
One better attributed to the heady, sweet haze that wine casts on him. Nothing else, nothing more.
When the light of day beckoned them to face the consequences of their acts in splitting headaches, Hans didn’t make a comment about Henry spending the night in his room.
Soon, it became a fixed occurrence.
Sometimes, it frightens Henry how well they have learnt to understand each other.
By the subtle tilt of a head. A raised eyebrow. A conspiratorial glance shared across a crowded hall, or the faintest grimace hidden from everyone else.
And then there are the things no one else could notice.
The way Henry has come to know the rhythm of Hans' breathing as though it were his own, and how, on more than one night, he has found himself wondering whether it lulls Hans to sleep as surely as it does him.
Still, Henry feels it.
A thread stretched taut between them, unseen yet impossible to ignore. Every shared glance, every bump of their shoulders, every silence drawn a little too long winds it tighter.
One day, he fears, one of them will pull too hard.
When they enter their shared room, the tempest unfurls.
“Can you believe the gall on my uncle, Henry?!” Hans snarls while searching for a pitcher of wine. The sun sinks toward the horizon, its last rays spilling through the window to bathe Hans Capon in molten gold. A fitting farewell, Henry thinks.
It’s only when the sound of Hans gulping down the wine that Henry realizes an answer is expected of him. He clears his throat first, wishing for the red stain to disappear from Hans’ lips. “What were you arguing about this time, Hans?”
When a daring tongue sweeps out the carmine sweetness, Henry is drawn to the movement, his heart rattling inside his chest.
“Hanush won’t allow me to accompany you on your mission.”
Henry furrows his brow.
“Why would you want to go?”
When Hans’ face turns into a sour sneer, Henry knows it’s not the right question to ask. “Henry, are you daft? Why wouldn’t I want to go?”
Henry rolls his eyes, irritated at himself for expecting a straight answer from Hans. He’s about to protest when Hans barrels on. “I’m fucking tired of everyone treating me like some child! Christ wounds, I’m a knight!” Said knight paces the room with barely coiled anger, a wolf caged. Yet, what Henry wants to do is to reach out, not afraid of being bitten.
“And you,” Hans says, turning his full attention upon Henry, blue eyes fixing him to the spot. “Are my squire! How could I not accompany you? What if you run into trouble and I am not there to help you?”
Henry blinks once. Then again.
His lips part, but all that escapes him is a startled huff. Something unfurls inside his chest all at once, swift and unstoppable, rushing through him like a spring river freed from winter's grip. Before he can think better of it, it spills onto his face in the shape of a crooked smile.
“Are you worried about me, Hans?”
For some reason, Henry has learnt to recognize the many shades of ruddiness that bloom across Hans' skin. Were his friend a better liar, Henry would have far less to go on. His embarrassment always betrays him, beginning at his cheeks before spilling down the length of his neck, until it disappears beneath the collar of his golden pourpoint.
Just like a hare caught beneath a hunter's bow, there is no escaping it.
Just as there isn't now.
Hans sputters, his voice climbing a note. "O-Of course I'm worried! If you fuck this up, it will reflect poorly on your lord, which happens to be me!"
Henry opens his mouth to protest, but Hans barrels on before he can manage a word. The flush clings stubbornly to his cheeks, refusing to retreat.
"Since you're my page, it is my duty to help you in this knightly endeavour." Hans clears his throat, sounding a little more certain with every sentence, as though each excuse lends strength to the next. "Besides, did you already forget we have a mission of the utmost importance later on? A letter must be delivered, and what sort of lord would I be if I showed up without my bodyguard?"
By the time he finishes, the embarrassment has given way to familiar indignation. Henry bites the inside of his cheek, fighting the smile threatening to betray him.
It would be easy to believe him. To accept Hans' reasoning and leave it at that. Yet a selfish corner of Henry's heart insists on searching his words for meanings they were never meant to carry. It is the very same part of him that wants to say yes before Hans has even finished asking.
He tames that misshapen joy, casting it aside like a rejected seed, to a place where no water, no sun, no soil would reach it.
“Sir Hanush is right, m’lord. There’s no need for you to come along. It will only take me two days to chase those filthy bastards out of your lands.”
Hans regards him with a hardened stare while he crosses his arms. He doesn’t offer more, so Henry feels compelled to do so. “My father also asked this of me, Hans. No need to endanger that pretty head of yours when there’s the bastard to do it, aye?” Henry tries to infuse some levity into his voice, a teasing tilt to his lopsided smirk.
Whatever ease had lingered on Hans' face vanishes in an instant.
His mouth presses into a thin line, his eyes suddenly sharp enough to make Henry falter.
“You’re not some bastard, Henry.” Hans takes a step towards him, the loud echo of his boots somehow resonating in the space between them. “Not some errand boy. You’re my friend.”
Once, when Henry was but a lad, he saw a lone flower blooming during the last days of winter. It was but a speck against the snow, and yet, its yellow petals defied the frost. Henry wondered how that could be, and he asked Ma. He remembers her words, still.
“Life, just like hope, is a tenacious little thing, my dearest. Even without much water or sun, this flower found a way.”
Henry feels that sentiment when he speaks, his voice as light as seeds scattering into the wind. “I thought I was just your squire.”
They stare at each other for a moment. Henry can’t help the smile that runs out of him, and he feels the need to sway on his feet. It gets worse as seconds go by while Hans remains with his mouth slightly agape and his eyes frozen in an emotion Henry can’t quite parse.
Henry sees the expression morph into an incredulous shake of Hans' head, while the hard line of his jaw relaxes, and Hans’ shoulder shakes in a soundless laugh. “You absolute, insolent, abhorrent turnip picker! I should put you in the stocks for your total lack of respect!” Hans points a finger at him, threatening a well-placed jab before he relents.
“One of these days you’ll actually have to follow through with your threats, sir.”
Hans’ laughter washes over Henry. He feels the sound over his skin, a summer rain that arrives just as quickly as it leaves. Hans regards him with a small smile, and he shakes his head before a sigh is let out.
“Henry,” Hans begins while he looks towards the window, towards the now darkened sky. “I’ve heard rumors about those Cumans you were sent to hunt down. They’re not the common bastards you’ve dealt with.”
Hans turns to him, but there’s no trace of the mirth they had just enjoyed. “I am worried. What if they outnumber you? I’ve heard the peasants talk about how the roads are becoming less and less safe every day, and I’m supposed to sit idle while you go on alone?”
Henry has never seen Hans look at him quite like this.
Blue eyes hold his with an intensity that leaves no room to look away. Hans' jaw is set hard enough to ache, and the hand at his side curls into a fist until the knuckles blanch.
Henry opens his mouth.
He imagines it. How easy it would be to ride by Hans’ side again, to cut down those filthy Cumans who rampage and destroy without a care in the world. Knowing that, if Henry found himself in trouble, Hans would be there. Just as Henry would be for him.
It is a tempting thought.
Perhaps the most tempting one of all.
Then another follows close behind.
A horse stumbling beneath a barrage of arrows. A blade finding a gap in armour. Hans charging headlong into danger before sense has the chance to catch up with him.
It only takes one mistake.
One moment.
Henry has already learnt how quickly everything can be taken from him.
"All the more reason for you to stay here, Hans." Henry forces the words past the tightness in his throat. "You're the future lord of Rattay. You remind everyone often enough."
He knows danger will find them eventually. It may well come when they ride to Trosky.
But that is then.
Now, Henry would sooner leave knowing Hans was safe waiting for his return.
A bored, grumpy lordling is better than a maimed one.
Of course, Hans doesn’t see it that way. His brow furrows, and a sneer crosses his face, swift as a nightingale.
"So you agree with my uncle."
"I agree with anyone who's speaking sense." The words slip out before Henry can soften them. Hans recoils as though struck.
"So now I lack sense?" Henry recognizes an edge to Hans’ words, a dangerous tilt to them. Henry rubs a weary hand over his face. They had been laughing not a minute ago. Hans' laughter still lingers somewhere in the room, like the last warmth left by the setting sun, yet already it feels impossibly far away.
"I only mean you're needed here. Sir Rad—my father," Henry scoffs, still not used to how the title rolls from his tongue. “He agrees it would be better for you to remain here.”
Sometimes, Henry can't decipher the thoughts behind his friend's face. Hans retreats behind the haughtiness afforded by his blue blood whenever it suits him, every expression polished smooth until Henry is left guessing. Other times, he wears every feeling as plainly as sunlight upon a spring lake.
"Remain here, as I did when you went to Vranik with everyone but me? Is that what you want?"
Hans' upper lip curls. His brows draw together, and he gives a short, disbelieving shake of his head, as though Henry had said something so foolish it scarcely deserved an answer.
“I would rather you be safe and listen to anyone for once, Capon.”
Hans laughs, but there's no humor to be found. "Listen to Hanush? To Radzig?" Henry tries to interject, but he's cut off again by Hans' mirthless chuckle. "But of course. He's your rightful lord after all, isn't he? And your father. You'll always listen to him first."
The corners of Hans' mouth remain crooked long after the laugh dies, stretched into something that resembles a smile only from afar. Up close, it sits poorly on him.
“What's this about?" Henry asks, his voice rough with prickling irritation. Hans doesn't answer. He only looks at him, jaw working as though he's chewing on words too bitter to swallow. "God's wounds, Hans!"
"I just..." The words die in his throat.
His gaze drops to the floor before snapping back to Henry's face. Whatever had nearly escaped him hardens into something else entirely.
"God be praised. Between you and my uncle, I scarcely have to think for myself."
The words prick. The omission hurts as harshly. Henry squares his shoulders. "Would you rather everyone indulged you?"
Hans' eyes flash. "Indulged me?" he repeats, incredulous. "You think that's what this is?"
"I think you're letting your pride get the better of you." Henry doesn’t soften his words. Doesn’t want to.
"My pride?" Hans steps forward, crowding into Henry’s space. "You truly believe I'd risk both our necks because I'm too vain to stay behind?"
Henry hesitates, searching for an answer in the desperate movement of Hans' eyes. Hans stands close enough that Henry could count every blond eyelash atop his eyes.
Yet, he has never felt more out of reach.
"I think," Henry says quietly, "that you're forgetting what happens if something befalls you."
Hans' expression hardens. "And what happens if something befalls you?"
Henry opens his mouth, but nothing comes. How does one promise not to die?
The silence stretches until Hans breaks it.
"I asked you a question."
His voice is low, each word honed to a knife's edge.
“I’ll be back.” Henry means every word. It sounds painfully small the moment it leaves his mouth. He sees it in the way Hans’ eyes cloud with despondency, as if Henry had said that this would be the last time they’re seeing each other. It is gone almost as soon as it comes, swallowed beneath a hardening jaw and eyes gone cold.
“Do whatever the fuck you want, Henry, as you always do.”
Hans turns, the expanse of his back akin to a closed door in its finality. Henry watches him—the practiced movements as Hans begins the process of discarding his pourpoint, the motion purposeful and practiced. There’s a fine tremble in the action, Henry believes. At least, he believes it is there, not daring to imagine that it’s only a figment of his imagination, of his desire that, perhaps, he’s not the only one left in the gutter.
When Hans reaches for the chest by his bed, Henry is finally able to swallow the lump down his throat. “Would you have me sleep in that shed tonight? The one you call a pigsty every chance you get?”
The words leave him before he can stop them. They aren't the ones he meant to say. He had only wanted to ask whether Hans wished to be alone. However, the anger in his voice feels right at home.
“Wasn’t I clear enough?”
When Henry closes the door behind him, he waits for Hans to call him back. The silence follows him into the dead of night.
Has he grown spoiled?
Back in Skalitz, he sometimes heard the neighbors jest that the forge was one of the finer homes in the village. Even the shed he had been given by Pirkstein's courtyard—cold at nights, damp whenever it rained—was more than many folk could hope for. Henry has never forgotten that. He is grateful to Sir Hanush for it. Truly.
Only...
The beds in Hans' chamber are warm. Soft. Filled with down instead of prickling straw, thick enough that the chill never quite reaches his bones.
Henry turns onto his other side with a weary sigh. The itching mattress presses stubbornly against his shoulder, the thin blanket doing little to keep the night's chill at bay. He has slept in forests beneath open skies, in abandoned hovels fit better for badgers than Christian men, and on ground so hard he had counted himself fortunate to wake with all his limbs still working.
One comfortable bed should not have been enough to spoil him.
He tells himself that's all.
That he misses the feather mattress.
Nothing more.
Yet when half an hour slips into one, and one into two, and he finds himself standing before Hans' door...
...it becomes much harder to believe.
The door is unlocked, and Henry has a mind to scold Hans for his lack of self-preservation. Anyone could walk in, just as he does now.
Henry's eyes settle on Hans' sleeping form, silvered by the moonlight spilling through the narrow window. For a heartbeat, he wonders whether Hans is merely feigning sleep, whether the slow rise and fall of his chest is no more than another trick meant to send Henry away.
He eases the door shut behind him and takes a cautious step toward the empty bed.
The floorboard groans, and Henry freezes. Hans shifts beneath the blankets with a quiet sigh, one arm slipping free before settling again.
Only then does Henry remember to breathe.
A loose strand of golden hair has escaped across Hans' brow. His lips remain parted around the soft rhythm of sleep, his face unburdened by the frowns and smirks that so often claim it during the day. Even his hands, forever eager to gesture or point or threaten some punishment he never intends to carry out, lie open atop the blanket.
Henry stares longer than he ought to. He drinks in the sight with the quiet greed of a man who has wandered too long beneath the summer sun before stumbling upon a stream.
There is no wine to blame tonight.
Truth be told, he stopped blaming the wine some time ago.
He has never looked at anyone else this way.
Never found himself memorizing the different shades of another man's laughter. Never noticed how blue eyes brighten beneath the afternoon sun, or how a smile begins at one corner of Hans' mouth before claiming the other. Never cared enough to know precisely how many freckles dust the bridge of his nose, nor the way his hair refuses to stay ruffled after a day's ride.
When Hans is being an unbearable arse, when Henry wants nothing more than to punch him square in his stupid, long chin—why is it so long?—the fury never lasts. It slips away as faithfully as dawn chases the night, leaving Henry wondering what possessed him to be angry in the first place.
Henry knows all of it.
As surely as he knows the path from Rattay to Neuhof.
As surely as he knows the weight of a sword in his hand.
It settles heavily in his chest. He does not give it a name.
There is little point.
Hans' gaze follows pretty tavern girls whenever they pass. He has chased butcher's daughters, pretty wenches, and noble ladies alike with the same effortless charm. One day, he'll wed someone to accompany his name.
Henry...
Henry is only himself.
When he finally slips beneath the blankets of the neighboring bed, he keeps his eyes fixed upon the dark canopy overhead, listening to Hans' slow, even breathing.
It is enough, he tells himself. It has to be.
Before the first rays of dawn have the chance to gild Hans in gold, Henry slips from his own bed. Hans hasn't stirred. One arm lies flung above his head, his hair a tousled halo against the pillow, his breathing slow and even. In sleep, he looks younger somehow, unburdened by lordship, by duty, by the argument that still weighs heavily on Henry's chest.
Henry lingers only a heartbeat longer.
"I'll be back," he whispers. "I promise."
The words are met only by the quiet rhythm of Hans' breathing.
Somehow, Henry finds comfort in that.
Pebbles greets him with a soft nicker the moment he steps into the stables, as though she has been expecting him all along.
"Aye, I know."
He strokes the side of her mane. She answers by nudging insistently at his shoulder, searching for the apple or crust of bread he so often keeps tucked away for her.
Henry lets out a quiet laugh despite himself.
"Greedy thing."
Instead of reaching for a treat, he wraps an arm around her neck.
Pebbles stands patiently beneath the embrace, warm and solid against the chill of the morning. Henry closes his eyes for the briefest moment and breathes in the familiar scent of horse and leather, willing the tightness in his chest to loosen.
"Good girl," he murmurs, giving her neck one last pat. "Ready for another adventure?"
He makes slow progress until he’s on the road by Neuhof.
Morning stretches lazily across the countryside. Dew still clings to the tall grasses lining the path, each droplet catching the newborn sunlight until the fields seem strewn with silver. Pebbles ambles beneath him with the easy confidence of a horse that knows these roads as well as her rider.
By the time Rattay has long since disappeared behind the hills, he has nearly convinced himself to stop dwelling on matters not concerning his mission.
A distant drumming of hooves gives him pause.
He glances over his shoulder.
A lone rider crests the rise behind him, urging his horse into a canter.
Henry instinctively reaches for the hilt of his sword before forcing himself to relax. The rider bears no colors he recognizes at first, only an assortment of well-used mail and plate that looks gathered piece by piece rather than forged as a set. A nondescript bow rests across his back while a longsword hangs comfortably at his hip, its scabbard muted in used leather.
He’s wearing a closed bascinet, and from a distance, Henry can’t parse the man’s eyes.
Only as it diminishes does Henry recognize the black-and-yellow waffenrock.
The rider reins in a respectful distance away.
"Henry of Skalitz?" The voice is rough, as though its owner had not spoken with it in years. It catches Henry off guard.
"I am."
The knight swings stiffly from the saddle. He is roughly of Henry’s height, broad enough through the shoulders to look capable, though there is something oddly restrained in the way he carries himself, as though every movement has been thought through before being made.
He reaches beneath the pouch at his belt and produces a folded letter.
"My lord bade me deliver this into your hands." Up close, the voice sounds stranger still. Hoarse. Forced. Every word seems to scrape against the back of the man's throat before escaping through the visor.
Henry follows as he dismounts Pebbles in a swift motion. Henry accepts the letter, his free hand lingering near the pommel of his sword. When he takes the parchment, the knight stays still and doesn’t say anything.
There’s no seal. When Henry’s eyes scan the parchment, he immediately recognizes the tidy writing.
“I, Lord Hans Capon of Pirkstein, rightful heir to Rattay and Polná, hereby charge Sir Václav of Lichtenburg to aid Henry of Skalitz in the fulfillment of his present task…”
Henry mouths the words beneath his breath, slower than he would like, aided by the disbelief gathering inside of himself. Reading still demands more of him than swinging a sword ever has, though Hans' hand has become familiar enough over the months.
Familiar enough to recall far too many dreadful verses that Henry had once been made to suffer through aloud.
There’s more scrawled on the letter, but he looks up when the knight—Václav?—shifts, his armor rattling with each movement.
Henry feels the man is one second away from tapping his armored foot against the road.
“Will you be much longer?” The gruff voice cannot quite hide the impatience beneath it. Henry lifts his eyes. The knight stands as rigidly as before, offering nothing through the slit of his visor.
Henry returns to the letter.
“He is to aid Henry of Skalitz as though he were acting in my own service.“
There’s nothing more.
That is all.
Henry folds the parchment with more care than necessary.
"I'd have finished sooner," he mutters, "had I not been interrupted."
The knight huffs something that might have been an apology, but somehow Henry knows it is not to be so. He only knows that a sense of dread settles over him.
Here stands another man, sent to watch over him.
Henry meets the knight's hidden gaze.
Whatever Hans' reasons may have been...
They leave a bitter taste in his mouth.