Chapter Text
The Praguers felled.
Henry’s arrival with Margrave Jobst birthed a new land, bringing rain where once lay drought. The crops had perished and brought hunger; they had once fought against weeds and parasites, weak and restless. But alas, it had come to a bleak, yet promising end.
Hans struggled to stand when he laid eyes on Henry. Within those moments, he doubted his reality. Perhaps his delirium had at last bested him, and he’d gone insane. He called Henry’s name in a voice riddled with misplaced tenderness, both hopeful and afraid. Then, he approached Henry with caution, praying that the man before him wouldn’t vanish.
He didn’t.
When Henry smiled, Hans knew he wasn’t dreaming, for his wildest fantasies couldn’t conjure such beauty. Henry’s fatigued face, his battle-worn body— perfection chiseled by the sun. Last time Hans saw him, the light in his eyes had dwindled, and the remaining spark flickered between their bodies. Now, with his head held high, Hans saw a new future on his face. His life regained its meaning.
Hans desired, unlike anything else in the cursed world, to kiss Henry senseless— to drag him into a room and never part. But with everyone’s eyes on them, he couldn’t; instead, Hans bared the pain of seeing Katherine hug him in the way he should’ve. Though unlike Katherine, Hans had Henry’s promise.
By nightfall, their bodies met again.
Then again.
And again.
Over and over, until their bodies remembered their injuries and collapsed. By then, the Devil’s Den had fallen victim to silence, and the battle became a relic of yesterday.
It was the first time fortune allowed them to linger in each other’s naked embrace. Bare, with their grief and wounds exposed— a pair of friends meeting as versions of themselves that were ever-growing.
Hans lay on his stomach, his hands tucked beneath his head as Henry ran his fingers down his spine with the touch of a feather, raising goosebumps in their wake. The digits trailed south until they reached his tailbone, where the sheet began its spread, before they ran towards his neck again. He basked in his newfound freedom, as temporary and fleeting as it was, although it felt like it wasn’t quite over. Soon enough, he’d wake in the tower, crossbow in hand, waiting for Zizka’s commands. Every time he felt panic rise, Henry’s fingers grounded him. The roughness of his touch. It felt too real.
Hans shivered. He’d never felt so vulnerable in his life.
“Were you this tender to all of your sweethearts?” Hans asked, his voice as faint as a whisper. “Say, to Bianca and Theresa?”
Henry hummed, acknowledging his question, but felt no hurry to answer. Ensuing his silence, Hans opened his eyes and gazed at him. He lain with his head perched on his hand; his body faced his, radiating with warmth. The white sheet fell on his hips, hiding his taint from Hans’ wandering eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“This is new to me. I’m… scared to fuck it all up. I guess I want to know if—” Hans words got caught in his throat, and clenched his hands into fists.
There was so much Hans never received, never felt, never heard. Henry, born in a less privileged position, ironically lived a richer life than Hans. Rich in love, care, and community. Meanwhile, Hans grew up with books as his companions; the sound of his voice echoing back at him through the empty halls was his best friend. While Henry accompanied his father to Kuttenberg, happy as can be, Hans attended hearings with the nobility, who labeled him as a troublemaker when all he’d been was a child.
Hans pompous behavior easily made everyone think otherwise. In reality, as an orphan, Hans was more than used to being alone.
But now he had Henry— a friend that provided Hans with the best luxuries in the world.
A gentle embrace. Meaningful company. Honest words.
“You don’t have to worry about anything when you’re with me,” Henry replied. “It’s a minion’s job to care for their master.”
Hans scoffed. “Oh, give over!”
“I mean it,” Henry said. “I’m proud of you.”
Hans had longed to hear those words for years, yet not a single person had uttered them before.
“For what?” His voice sounded as weak as a somber child.
“For not running.”
Henry still remembered the Hans at Talmberg, scared and shaken, riddled with guilt for cowering instead of fighting. He wanted to be better— to be the knight he’d been trained for. And now, he was. Hans was the best knight Henry knew. Not because he was the bravest or strongest; he might not even be the smartest or richest. But he always tried to be, even at times when it seemed better to just give up.
Henry kissed his shoulder. “I think your parents would be proud of you too, Hans, for the knight you’ve become.”
The lips met his pale skin again, where they lingered for a stint. As Henry breathed, his exhales teased his shoulders. The feeling that birthed in Hans’ chest was unlike anything he’d felt before. But it was kind and it was safe, and it guided him towards a haven akin to fairytales. And whenever his mind fought against sleep, Henry’s presence eased his pesky thoughts.
Hans never knew somebody’s existence could provide so much comfort. He hoped the night would last an eternity.
A month into their recovery, the mundane routine at the Devil’s Den had finally settled. The patrons had eased their boisterous celebrations, and a new tomorrow had risen.
The soil remained troubled and traumatized, stained by blood, arrows, and gunpowder. Hans could see where the Praguers had branded the ground with their footsteps like cattle. They were on the path to healing, and they had a long way to go. Some things were recovered; other things got lost to time.
Henry, as usual, lent a hand to those in need. After two days of loitering, he continued his noble deeds. Once the sun reached the middle skies, he’d take his leave and accompany Godwin and Zizka to the city. Meanwhile, Hans drank himself silly and collapsed in bed with a body that felt better day by day. Only when he had recovered enough did he resume his hunting, and ventured towards the hills.
Deep inside, however, wounds lingered— wounds that Hans profusely ignored in favor of laughing once more. Such had been his life, anyway. Boozing and whoring until night fell and day arose. Except this time around, someone accompanied him in his loneliest hours.
Hans and Henry reserved the nights for each other. They found their solace in soft kisses and tender hugs. Quietude and comfort after everyone had passed out drunk, and the moonlight replaced their lamps. Since they’d left Pirkstein, they hadn’t a moment to rest. Now that they could, they’d forgotten how. Nightmares plagued their sleep. But rather than sulk, they coped by making memories under the covers, away from the chaos, just as they’d once done in Rattay.
But the chaos will always find its way back to him, Hans realized as he held a sealed scroll from Rattay. He needn’t open it to know what Sir Hanush had written.
Hans’ heart pounded heavily in his chest. He wanted to scream, to cry, to hide. He felt overwhelmed by the walls, by the world, that felt too big, and yet so small. Stuck in a situation he couldn’t resolve, he saw himself in shackles. The best he could do was postpone the event as much as possible.
He didn’t hesitate. Hans hastily wrote his correspondence and sent the messenger on his way— but not before sliding groschen into his pocket. If he knew Sir Hanush well, he’d inquire about Hans’ appearance, so the messenger needed to play along. After ensuring his silence, Hans grabbed a wineskin, straddled his horse, and left the Devil’s Den.
The open space lightened his load, though the weariness of his future remained. Hans extended his arms and closed his eyes, feeling the zephyr comb through his hair. Oh, how he missed the feeling of the Sun on his skin, away from everyone, where he felt in control of his environment.
Hans ditched his horse by the foot of a tall mountain, and climbed uphill with practiced ease. He’d made the same journey multiple times since their return to the Devil’s Den. There, he had discovered an abandoned cottage, which he spent time cleaning it for no reason than to keep his hands busy and mind away. The place was a tad too small for comfort, but the isolation appeased him. The world seemed insignificant from there, and as a result, he became insignificant too.
By the time Hans arrived, he’d drunk most of the Sylvan Red wine he brought. He walked a few feet past the cottage and threw himself on the moss grass with a heavy sigh. The darkening skies reflected onto his light blue eyes like a perfect mirror. There, Hans dreamt of a world in which nothing tethered him to the ground. Life would be better then, for both Henry and himself. There’d be no duties or responsibilities. Just them and nature as it should’ve been when they left Pirkstein.
“Sir Hans!”
Henry’s call awoke Hans from that dream. His eyes no longer reflected a constellation of blues, but Henry’s face.
The sight of him sent shivers down Hans’ spine, akin to what he felt when he first saw Henry after the siege, alive and standing. Like his lungs, which had burned and withered, expanded with air and he could breathe again.
“Ah, Henry, my favorite companion,” Hans greeted with a bright smile, rivaling the setting Sun ahead. He offered the wine skin to Henry. “Come! Share a drink with me.”
In four broad strides, Henry stood above Hans, his hands on his hips, equal parts irked and relieved. If he’d worn his armor, he’d look like an Arthurian knight.
“What are you doing here? I’ve been looking for you like mad.”
“And you found me, as usual. You’re quite impressive, really.”
Hans nearly went cross-eyed looking at him from where he lain. He blinked at Henry with a lazy smile.
“I’m flattered that you find my distress amusing, my Lord, but you shouldn’t be running off. If anything were to happen to you—”
Hans interjected his speech with a loud groan. “Must I continue suffering from monotonous lectures for the rest of my life? Don’t be such a droll, Henry. I swear, sometimes you sound like my former nannies and courtiers. ‘Young Lord Hans, you mustn’t run too fast,’ ‘Young Lord Hans, stop shouting at your subjects from the castle walls.’ Jesus Christ, how incredibly dull! What else can I do for fun? Study? Talk to the priest? Pah!”
As much as Hans complained, his voice carried hints of playful joy. He couldn’t help it. Henry’s sole existence alighted a fire within him. Heat that crawled across his body, coloring his skin in hues of red. Even his groin tingled.
Perhaps the wine affected him more than he realized…
Seeing Hans’ carelessness, Henry dropped his hands and shrugged in defeat. “Well, at least I don’t report you to Sir Hanush.”
“Right you are, my dear Henry, now come on!”
Without a warning, Hans yanked Henry forward with great force. Fortunately, the war had forged more than Henry’s wits; it also strengthened his instincts. Before he collapsed on top of Hans, he stretched his arms and caught himself. However, he hadn’t anticipated Hans’ next attack.
Taking advantage of Henry’s disorientation, Hans wrapped his legs around his waist and forced him onto his back. He attempted to pin his wrists, but to Hans’ dismay, Henry’s daze broke. He countered Hans by jabbing his torso with his left hand.
They wrestled for a while, rolling around like a pair of animals. They kicked and punched as blades of grass stuck onto their attire. Finally, Henry used the remainder of his energy to exude all of his force against Hans. He forced him onto the ground and pinned his wrists above his head with a smirk. Panting and huffing, they gazed into each other’s eyes with big grins.
“Jesus, you’ve gotten so strong since we first met. You used to be a scrawny insolent peasant, and now you’re some… beast pinning his Lord on the floor.”
What felt like a lifetime was a little over a year since they’d met. The Henry who laughed with him, whose pulse he could practically see through the veins on his neck, wasn’t the same frazzled man he met at the Upper Castle. He’d grown stronger, smarter, braver. The war crafted him that way. But that’s how Hans had always known him— outspoken, stubborn, and true.
But what was Henry like before he stumbled into Pirkstein? Before Skalitz had fallen and his parents breathed their last. Who would Henry be if such tragedy hadn’t occurred? Hans couldn’t help but wonder.
Their roads wouldn’t have crossed in such a life. Henry would’ve continued laughing unruly with lovely Bianca in his arms, working at the forge with his father, and enjoying his mother’s warm supper. And Hans, well, he would’ve continued watching the world spin from his window, hand on his chin, observing the peasants moving about, never knowing how vast acres of trees could feel like how home.
“You’ve changed too. From a spoiled braggart, born with a silver spoon in his mouth to a… hm, actually…”
“Kiss my arse!” Hans smacked Henry’s shoulder and shoved him off to the side.
They both fell in comfortable silence, absorbing the scenery and its beauty. Clouds glazed across the skies like swans on the water’s surface; mild breeze blew the trees until they danced and sang. From where they sat, at the top of the mountain, fog covered the bottom of the land. Nothing but an audience of trees in sight— not a person, not a hare, just a painting of green foliage. The war hadn’t reach the land or the skies there; thus, they were at peace.
Hans reached for Henry’s hand and interlaced their fingers. “This is my new philosophy for life: good wine, the open skies, and you.”
Touched by his words, Henry looked at him with a playful glint in his eyes. “Would anyone believe me if I told them that beneath Lord Capon’s whoring lay a poetic and romantic soul?”
“Ah, but how else does one develop a poetic and romantic soul, my dear Henry, if not by whoring?” Hans met his gaze, his eyes brimming with a joy that had become rare in him.
“By courting a nice lady the honorable way?”
“Honor? What honor?” Hans sputtered. “Honor is a thing amongst men and war. That’s why we work well together, my friend.”
Henry shook his head with a laugh. He knew better than to argue against Hans. Thus, he didn’t bother trying. Instead, he took in his surroundings. The cottage behind them caught his attention. It was slightly bigger than Bozhena’s, with a gate barely standing around it. Its weak constitution rendered it useless, as though anyone could tear it down if they so much walked by too fast.
“What is this place anyway?”
“Well, Henry, this would be my den. I had to create a new one after those filthy cut-throats raided the last, only I’ve expanded,” he replied. “It reeked like shit when I first found it. Let’s just say the last owner must’ve been a sad widow. I buried her not far from here.”
“A widow? What in God’s name brought her up here? If it wasn’t for Mutt, I would’ve never found this place.”
“I suppose she wanted to hide from the world. It’s rather lonely here, but it’s nice if only a tad too small. There’s some good hunting spots nearby, a lake down the hill, and an herb garden in the back that desperately needs tending. What else could a fellah need?”
Henry smirked, “I suppose good company. We could hide here until everyone forgets about us.”
“Pah! Could you imagine? The look on Sir Hanush’s face when he realizes his ward has become a nomad with his squire. Priceless! It’s a shame I’d miss it.”
“Why not? We could travel, see the world, y’know, just as we’d always talked about.”
The idea made Hans’ heart flutter. When did Henry begin luring that reaction from him? A foreign, funny feeling that constantly yearned for his touch.
“You don’t seriously think we’d get away with it?”
He shrugged. “Maybe? Why wouldn’t we?”
“Beati pauperes spiritu, ” Hans laughed unruly. “Uncle Hanush and Sir Radzhig would send a whole army after us, and give us a proper whipping once they caught us. It took little effort for Father Godwin to find us, need I remind you.”
Henry swatted the air. “I’m just yanking your pizzle, Sir Hans. Besides, what would Rattay do without their Lord?”
Right. Rattay. Pirkstein. The “true” home that awaited him. His fiefdom, his legacy, his prison. The place that held his blessings and pain.
Hans sudden silence alerted Henry. “What’s troubling you, Sir Hans?”
Hans averted his gaze as he sat up. He didn’t want to talk about it, not yet. Not when things were so good between them. But hiding things from Henry was nearly impossible. He was his person. The one who could look through his pompous facade with acceptance.
“I’ve received a letter from Uncle Hanush in regards to my courtship,” Hans said, his words slurred and riddled with disdain. Reluctantly, he passed the wrinkled parchment to Henry.
“What? That fast?”
“I must admit the tidings were rather haste. But fear not! I’ve already sent back the messenger. As far as Uncle Hanush is concerned, I am dreadfully ill at the moment.” Hans let his shoulders drop and he sighed with a heaviness that could compare to the heaviest shield. An insurmountable amount of burdens hid within. “I reckon it will be a while yet before he summons me again… Ugh, the thought alone makes me sick.”
When Hans gazed at Henry, he thought of what he’d do if their situations were reversed. Henry had a strong sense of duty, but he didn’t fear defying authority. His determination to fight, his unwavering sense of justice, his eagerness to lead with his heart. It came easily to Henry. Hans had met others who had endured similar hardships as Henry, if not worse. But nobody could compare in integrity and virtue, not even Hans, who had trained his entire life trying.
Hans looked at their hands. His own had handcrafted calluses— the patterns were too perfect, forged by sword practice and archery. They lacked authenticity, unlike Henry’s, who learned how to wield a hammer before a sword. He had several burnt marks along his veins, wounds that taught him to stop fooling around the forge, and now, told a story of a charred Skalitz. His calluses were clumsy, forged out of craze and error. But they were real, and in a way, more noble than Hans’.
Did he bleed the first time he drew a bow, too? Hans wondered. He still vividly remembered the blood on the string and the splatter on his boots. He was eight-years-old when it’d happened. The nurses had wrapped his fingers in bandages and Captain Bernard dismissed him shortly thereafter. When Sir Hanush caught word of the incident, he had scolded Hans for his recklessness. He hadn’t even asked what happened; he just assumed it was his fault.
Typical, that. For his kin to reach conclusions without him— to plan his life without asking.
Hans took another swing at his wine. Then, he passed it over to Henry, who finally accepted his offer, and chugged the rest. Hans smiled at his eagerness and nudged him on the shoulder with his.
“Simply the best wine, eh?”
“I’d rather drink the town’s piss.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Between them lay a sense of understanding; it went unspoken. Their grins reflected their combined innocence; a missed youth that still existed despite the war— childlike urgency that only escaped whenever they resigned in each other’s company. Typically, it required effort from Hans to coax it out of a stern Henry. However, since Hans’ arranged courtship, Henry realized that his mischief had diminished.
The grass, once untainted by war and blood, touched humanity’s sorrow again when Hans’ tears trickled down his flushed cheeks and landed on the moss like rain. He tried fighting against, what Hans considered, his weakness and shame, but his pain overpowered his will of resistance.
Hans wiped his tears aggressively. “Fuck! Damn it!”
For the first time, Hans Capon cried.
Not because an arrow pierced his skin, or he’d been bathed him in excrement, but because Sir Hanush had robbed him of his freedom yet again. He’d forever be a prisoner, bound to Rattay and a wife he didn’t love— a wife he never wanted. Perhaps Sir Hanush had been right all along; Hans lived a life in ignorance and was too frivolous to lead.
“Don’t worry too much about it, Hans,” Henry said, placing his hand on his thigh. “You always knew this day would come, didn’t you? You already knew you’d have to bear an heir. I’m sure you heard of it a lot growing up, and your other duties as well.”
“Yes, but it’s still a shit-show,” Hans sniffled. “I suppose I thought that by the time I ascended none of it would matter. But I was an idiot to believe that.”
“Look at it this way, my Lord, nobody could stop you after you fulfill your most important responsibilities.” Henry ran his hand down Hans’ back. “After the marriage, you could find a chamberlain to take care of your estates while you’re gone. Then, we can travel to wherever the fuck you want—”
“Wherever we want.”
“Aye… we want, and everything will be alright.”
“Why are you okay with this? Doesn’t it hurt you?”
“I’d do anything to make you happy, Hans, but I’m no fool. I know what duty means. We just have to accept it. I reckon it’ll be my turn one day, too.”
“Right…”
Hans Capon felt his heart breaking, piece by piece, shattering under the immense pressure of Henry’s words. If Henry got married, he might not handle it as well. He could hardly tolerate Samuel, his brother, let alone a lady who’d share Henry’s bed. No, it was unfathomable.
Tears cascaded endlessly as Hans buried his head in his hands. He felt like a fool crying over an issue that, like Henry said, he knew was inevitable. He knew the legacy his parents had carved for him would require sacrifices; he just…
He didn’t know it’d hurt so much.
“I’ll never be happy. I was born to live this fucked up life in this fucked up world with fucked up people. The only time I felt happy was when… when we…”
“Don’t talk like that, Hans. I’ll never leave your side, for better or for worse, Hans. I gave you my word; you have to trust me on this.”
“I know…” Hans groaned. He clenched his fists on his hair and squeezed at the roots for a few seconds. “Ugh, whatever. Let’s not mourn like a pair of widows. This place has seen enough of that as it is. Would you like to see the inside of my cottage?”
Henry’s shoulders dropped as he sighed. He knew the conversation hadn’t concluded. Hans had a tendency to cower like a wounded animal when he felt too exposed. It couldn’t be helped; it’s how they’d raised him.
“Sure, why not?”
Hans led him towards the cottage as if the past few minutes never happened. He was light on his feet, trotting past the meager fence that surprisingly didn’t fall apart.
The interior of the cottage had certainly seen better years, but it was cozy. If an old crone had once resided there, Henry wouldn’t have guessed from how neat it was. There was a decently sized bed across the entrance, in front of a fireplace, which had a pot above it for cooking. Next to the door stood a dice table, overlooking a small window. As cramped as it was, it was perfect. It felt oddly familiar and safe, away and tucked in a corner of the world that was nearly unreachable.
Perhaps the conversation from earlier touched Henry’s heart, or maybe it was the soothing fragrance of sage, lavender, and everything Hans, but a powerful hunger over-encumbered him. His sentiments for Hans had always remained restrained, even during their tender nights, they were forced to be quiet. Yet, there they were. At the top of a lonely mountain. Together.
Hans didn’t make it far inside. With a slam, Henry pushed Hans against the door, forcing a gasp from him. In less than a second, their lips collided in a mess of harsh and sloppy kisses as they pulled each other in. Starved for wanton and heat, Henry squeezed Hans’ hips, and shoved him harder against the door.
Hans moaned under his ministrations. His arms wrapped around his neck as he struggled to match Henry’s crazed rhythm. The combination of the wine and lust went straight to his hose. He could hardly focus; he could only feel.
And what he felt were arrays of ecstasy as Henry carried him by his thighs to the dice table. Sparks of pain shot through his backside from being shoved against hard surfaces, yet the pleasure muted any discomfort. Henry bit as his lips. Then, his neck and earlobes. Spreading tingles that nearly drove Hans insane. He didn’t know what pushed Henry into such animalistic behavior, but God, he wished it’d never stop.
Hans’ eyes opened wide. Was he really enjoying this type of behavior? Manhandled and rendered powerless beneath a peasant of all people?
He couldn’t ponder any further. Henry stripped Hans of his outer layers, leaving him in his braies at an impressive speed.
Henry leaned in until their lips lightly grazed. “Tell me, Sir Hans, you don’t want me married, do you? You want to keep me as you squire and order me around?”
Half a minute had passed before Hans registered Henry had asked him a question. His voice, hoarse, deep, and sensual, made him nervous. Something in Hans sparked awake, an ability Henry had mysteriously mastered.
Hans swallowed the knot in his throat. He licked his lips, where Henry’s taste lingered. All while gazing into the oceans within Henry’s eyes and nearly drowning in them.
A minute had passed when Hans realized he had to answer. In truth, he didn’t know what to say. As if speaking his thoughts would condemn and perish him, even though his actions had said worse.
What could he say?
Henry was his protector, teacher, savior, companion, soulmate. Everything he needed in one, yet someone he could never call a husband.
They had an uncertain future ahead, and it scared Hans shitless— a feeling he knew was only his to bear. After all, Henry had lost it everything once, yet he overcame. He proved to be resilient, blessed with the ability to start over and over again despite the circumstances. No matter what situation he found himself in, he’d weather through it alone.
That scared Hans too. Not being needed by the person he needed the most.
Henry could spread his wings and soar the great skies, but Hans was a caged fledgling with wings itching to fly and nowhere to go. He feared that if he attempted to leave his cage, he’d fall and nobody would catch him.
But how could he say that without sounding so pathetic?
Hans whispered, “I want to keep you as… as my lover.”
“How could I deny you anything?”
Henry brought their lips together in a rush of fever.
Lovers. Bonded through fear, war, lust, and understanding; their truth lay within their sins. The taste of blood and craving sweet on their lips. Scars had stuck forever on their skin, carved by hatred and necessity. The human’s will to survive stretched across them like stripes, clear in each other’s eyes as they joined in union.
“Henry…” Hans exhaled.
Henry’s lips didn’t depart. He kissed Hans’ neck, licking and sucking lightly. He ran his cool tongue across his Adam’s apple before closing his lips around it, feeling the way it vibrated from Hans’ gentle sounds.
“Christ’s wounds,” Hans sighed. “Henry, enough, I need you. Now. Before I die from the constraints in my braies. I feel like I can’t breathe, for fuck’s sake.”
Henry didn’t know what possessed him when he wrapped his hand around Hans’ neck, and pulled him forward. That action alone would’ve sent him to the gallows under different circumstances. But everything between them had changed, and the line between bodyguard and Lord had blurred, though ever-present. It was the tether that kept them tied to one another— a shield to hide their relationship behind.
Despite his bold action, Hans didn’t pull away. The lust clouded his judgment and left him defenseless under Henry’s mercies. Wherever Henry would go, Hans would follow, though it was unclear whether that was just his lust, or if he was that smitten over Henry. Either way, Henry wouldn’t dare go anywhere his Lord couldn’t be. Once, he said Hans was his living ball and chain. In some way, he was. Like an anchor. Somebody who kept him afloat when he felt like sinking against life’s ruthless waves. In him, Henry found his laughter again, just when it felt impossible after Skalitz burnt to the ground.
Henry squeezed lightly, feeling Hans pulse beneath the pad of his thumb. Another sign of survival. But then, he let go and brought his hand up to Hans face, allowing his fingers to feel the supple skin. His jaw, his cheeks, his nose. He ran his fingers through Hans’ pink lips. Soft and vicious. That mouth of his that got him in plenty of trouble. Many times Henry wanted to shut it, but never forever.
For a moment, a brief moment, Henry heard the screams of Hans at Nebakov, when he shouted for help— for Henry— to save him. The sound of desperate howling, sorrowful screeching, and the crying of a naive soul shattering under the weight of the cruel world. But the imagery was gone as soon as it came. And the truth unraveled before him. Hans had survived many horrors and now pleaded for the pleasure only Henry could deliver. And as always, Henry would try his best not to let him down.
“I’d do anything for you,” Henry said as he slowly returned his hand back to his neck for no other reason than to hold. It made a nice replacement for the rope that once tied around it— an image that stuck to Henry’s head and never let go.
Henry’s left hand got busy. With practiced ease, he began undoing his own pourpoint. Their eyes never parted from each other. But despite Henry’s steady work, Hans’ impatience got the better of him and he helped Henry toss it faster.
Touching, skin to skin, wasn’t enough.
Would it ever be?
Would Hans ever be enough to shelter Henry from danger? Could he do for him what Henry had done? Hans promised he would, but he didn’t know if he’d be capable.
“Henry, I… I don’t know what to do. I want to protect you, but my title and groschen is all I have. I don’t want to lose you.”
Henry nuzzled Hans’ nose with his own. “I never thought I’d see the day when Lord Hans Capon felt his title was worthless.”
“Very droll, Henry. But I’m serious. If there’s anything all of this shit proved is how little everyone thinks of me, even as a noble. If anyone were to find about us…”
“Don’t worry about it. We’re smart, you and I, and we’ll be careful. Besides, I’m willing to die for love.”
Love.
Henry loved Hans. Not because of duty, but for reasons Hans couldn’t understand. It was a foreign topic to him. He never thought he was somebody who could earn love, but rather command it. Nobody would give it up willingly. At least… not to him.
Yet, Hans still felt unworthy. He wanted to pamper Henry in gifts because that’s the most he could offer. But no amount of gifts could make Hans feel better about himself as a lover. He’ll always feel less than. Undeserving. Unlovable.
Hans wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him forward. Beneath his fingertips, he could barely feel the scar an arrow had left behind on his shoulder. The feel created hurricanes of memories. When everything took a turn for the worst, and Hans saw Henry’s life in death’s grip. Getting stabbed didn’t hurt nearly as much as seeing Henry dying.
“Will you continue staring at my handsome face or will you finally fuck me proper?”
“It wouldn’t hurt to say please once in a while, you know?”
Henry protested, yet his fingers followed what Hans commanded. Henry had shed, without a second of care, every remaining article of clothing off Hans’ body— the clothes that the proper noble had probably carefully arranged with utmost perfection. After all, clothes maketh the man.
“Begging is for beggars, and I am a bellator.”
“What are you blabbering about now?”
“Do you seriously not remember— Ah! Kurva! Henry, what the fuck?!”
In the middle of his sentence, Henry had pushed into him swiftly, leaving Hans gaping and panting. The pressure in his backside left his body quivering and aching. Despite the initial pressure, his muscled thighs instinctively wrapped around Henry’s waist.
“That reminds me… you never really paid me back for those sacks of flour I carried for the both of us,” Henry smirked. “I say we should rectify that now.”
“Henry—”
He gave a slow, but hard thrust. “A nobleman’s word is a promise before God, right?”
“Now, listen here, you dolt. Is this any way to treat your betters— ah!”
He shoved in deeper, the deepest he’d ever been. “Sorry, what was that, Sir?”
Hans’ face flushed and he stuttered, “Oh, shut the fuck up and kiss me, you… you heathen!”
“What does that make you, Sir? A priest?” Henry said as he began thrusting in a steady rhythm, swallowing Hans’ gasps in the process.
“Well, I already speak Latin. If Godwin can become a priest with his boozing, I reckon I can become a priest overnight. Wide-arsed and all!”
“Why stop there? Why not join a monastery and become a monk? I’ll teach you all about it.”
“And fuck in the house of the Lord? Are you mad?!”
Henry chuckled. “With all due respect, Hans, I’d fuck you just about anywhere.”
Hans had never felt so humiliated (and turned on) ever before. Henry might as well fuck him to death. That’d be less embarrassing than being chastised by his squire.
Henry drove into him with uncontained fervor. His nails raked up and down Henry’s back as every part of him shook in pleasure. Gasping, pulling, screaming, in a private spot in the woods, nearly impossible for anyone to reach unless they got crafted by sin and war. Persevering. Fighting. Sparring. Once more, Hans yanked him towards him and kissed him harshly until they were both breathless. At once, Henry’s pace continued and the room was filled with ludicrous slapping noises and wanton moans.
All thoughts of war and marriage became meaningless, then.
Love— whatever it was, whatever it felt like, Hans recognized it when he looked at Henry. To hell with the Karolinas, the Klaras, the Jitkas. Hans wouldn’t lay down his title for anybody; he wouldn’t lower himself beneath anyone unworthy. But for Henry, he’d surrender more than that… For Henry, he’d surrender his life.
Memento mori.