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It works at first.
When Hans is called to the wedding, he pretends to be too sick for travel. They hunt, train, and even go fishing with Godwin and Kubyenka once – no one catches anything and by midday, all four of them are drunker than a rat stuck in a wine barrel.
Life at the Devil’s Den moves in slow circles of amusement and work.
Henry spends his time following his lord’s desires or helping the locals with their worries, just like he did before Suchdol, only with the added bonus of Hans complaining that his bed grows cold when he returns later than anticipated. It’s nice. Like a little secluded utopia without any outside-worries pouring in. But they all know it won’t last forever.
Eventually, they run out of excuses.
Hanush comes, banners held high, red-faced and fuming, and Henry braces for impact.
He and Godwin watch from the balcony as Hans argues with his uncle in front of the Devil’s Den, a family feud laid bare for the uglier parts of the world to see. Katherine, Janosh, and Sam all join them at some point and together they watch as the lords of Leipa bicker like washerwomen – until Hans turns on his heels and storms off, wearing a face of crumbling and defeated fury.
Henry sighs and goes to pack their things. Godwin helps.
They ride out just before sunrise.
~~~~
When Jitka arrives, a few days before the festivities, Henry does something Hans won’t forgive him for quite a while.
But Henry deems it necessary, so he waits patiently until the bride has settled in her new chambers, ladies no longer fluttering around her like a flock of overgrown exotic birds in their colorful gowns – until both Hanush and Hans have retired for the night, one in much higher spirits than the other. He makes sure to look presentable and non-threatening – his sword carefully tucked under his bed, his face clean-shaven – and knocks twice on the door to her rooms before a hesitant voice allows him entry.
“Yes?”
He steps inside, presses a fist to his chest and bows, a quick, soldiery thing, and not exactly fit for a lady, but Henry is nervous. If he stops to think for even a second, he might jump out of a window and run straight back to Kuttenberg.
“Forgive my intrusion, Lady Kunstadt, but I must speak with you, and I fear it cannot wait until morning.”
There is the rustle of fabric and Henry looks up, blinks a little when his eyes meet a piercing yet gentle green gaze.
“Ah, Lord Pirkstein’s squire. Henry, isn’t it?”
Hans’s future wife sits on the edge of her new bed – temporary arrangements, he thinks, too small for a wedding night – , her hands clinging onto her dress like a lifeline. She looks- well, she does look pretty, her hair as dark as a raven feather, soft lips, and a round, healthy face. Months ago, Henry might have blushed at the sight of her, dazed by beauty – now there is only one thing that really sticks out to him. If anything, Jitka of Kunstadt looks tired. Not from her travels, though Henry does note a distinct air of exhaustion that comes with too much time spent in carriage or saddle. She looks tired as in defeated. Inner turmoil of weeks finally boiled down to a bitter clump of acceptance.
Green eyes find his and Henry thinks oh.
“Well?” She shifts slightly, voice like ice. “Tell me, then, what matters are pressing enough for you to keep me from my much-needed rest?”
Henry takes a breath and, again, braces himself. For the battle ahead. For the conversation ahead. And for the potential defeat, that might ultimately follow it.
He clears his throat and tells her everything.
~~~~
Truth be told, he imagined many outcomes. Screaming. Some tears, even curses. The simple lack of understanding. A chamber pot to his face, a kick in the nuts. (Somewhere down in hell, a Polish bastard cackles like a madman)
And Henry knows there is a risk of her taking this straight to Hanush or Radzig or, who knows, Martin’s grave-
This is downright suicidal. He knows.
What he doesn’t expect, however, is-
A giggle. Henry stops mid-sentence, his hands seemingly kneading themselves into dough, as bubbling laughter crawls out of Jitka’s throat. She tries to stop herself, coughing a little to cover it up, but her frame shakes with pure, obvious delight.
“Ap- Apologies, I- oh, God, give me a moment.” Fingers slink between the linen covers of her bed, where she pulls a white handkerchief from God knows where, and then dabs at her eyes with it. Henry bites his lip, blinking in confusion. She is actually crying with laughter. What in the fucking hell-
“I didn’t think- sweet, merciful Lord, so the rumors are true after all!” she all but wheezes, while heat creeps up Henry’s neck, who is quietly fighting the urge to strangle himself with her handkerchief. It’s tiny and he’s got a strong throat, but he’ll make it work. People have died from less. (He does not think about a stale-white corpse drowned in an ocean of piss and shit, thank you very much)
“Rumors, my lady?” Dear God, he sounds as if there is a frog strumming his vocal cords, doing its best impersonation of a dying cat with diarrhea and a knife up its ass. Jitka snorts, wipes a tear from the corner of one eye, and grins at him. It looks downright terrifying.
“What, you think they don’t speak of your and Lord Capon’s warrior’s bond outside of the walls of Rattay? The way you came to his rescue at Maleschau, your suicidal yet successful mission to tear Suchdol out of Von Aulitz’s claws – truly, minstrels have been writing their fingers bloody ever since your latest victory.”
She leans back a little, fixing Henry with an unreadable look, and then pats the mattress, invitation clear on her face. He hesitates before settling down next to her and folds his hands in his lap. Another snort escapes Jitka.
“I may not know either of you like you know each other,” she continues and there is something soft in her voice, that has Henry looking up from where he is playing with the edges of his sleeves. “But the way he glanced at you, when Lord Hanush introduced us? How he lingered, after we’d gotten the formalities over with? Well…”
Henry cocks a brow. “Well?”
“Well, let’s just say that perhaps Lord Capon is not as subtle in his devotion as he thinks he is.”
Henry thinks about how Hans wears his heart on his sleeve, how he makes distaste as obvious as desire, how he pouts and grins so childlike Henry wishes to crawl inside of him and hold him where he is most vulnerable.
“What I am saying is that our dear Lord of Pirkstein looks like he is always seconds away from climbing you like a squirrel would an oak tree,” Jitka adds drily, and Henry chokes on his own saliva. She laughs again, brightly, and watches his face grow two shades redder. “Come now, it is a wonderful thing to be desired so. It makes life a little easier, does it not?”
Henry coughs around his own embarrassment and finds his tongue again. “You speak from experience, my lady?”
Jitka’s smile wobbles a little and she nods, once, gaze cast downwards. “I do. But that is the past and in the past it shall stay.”
She will tell him, one day.
On a winter’s night, when Hans is bedridden with a fever so hot it has him shaking, she will sit beside Henry and tell him of the first boy she ever loved. Of soft kisses between the long hours of Sunday mass, of his crooked grin, bright red hair, and how he found his death somewhere on the outskirts of Bohemia, skull split in half and thrown into a river by a bandit. Of the servant-girl she had glanced at for a moment too long and how her father almost lit a pier beneath those slender feet of hers, when he found Jitka’s letters. She’ll press her lips to Henry's temple and tell him that love finds a way, that being hurt by its’ loss is just a confirmation of its existence.
But today is not that day, so Jitka simply takes Henry’s calloused right hand into hers, cold fingers squeezing slightly, and offers him another smile. An olive branch. Reassurance. Understanding.
~~~~
The wedding is a blur. One moment, Henry is smoothing out the wrinkles on Hans’s clothes – after Capon has stopped him from taking them off for the third time this morning, albeit a little begrudgingly – and in the next he’s clinging to a singing Godwin’s side in an attempt to keep his balance.
Hans has somehow managed to invite the whole, glorious entirety of the Devil’s pack to both ceremony and feast. Truth be told, it wasn’t that difficult to pull off – the Dry Devil shares Jitka’s blood in one way or another, earning him a ticket to the wedding by sheer default and the rest? Someone at some point argued that Hynek couldn’t possibly arrive without an entourage, which Henry’s pretty sure is a type of sexually transmitted disease he once heard of in the bathhouses of Kuttenberg, so here they all are.
Janosh is under a table somewhere, muttering about fallen sausages, while Kubyenka, who most likely already arrived half-drunk, is dancing with a slightly befuddled yet smiling Jitka. Even Žižka is there, one eye still under wraps after what Godwin has started calling the Wilhelm Tell-incident, nursing a drink next to a red-faced, laughing Hanush and a much more composed looking Radzig. Hans is… gone, Henry lost sight of him ages ago when he got dragged off to meet an even larger bulk of newly acclaimed family members, and the room’s spinning and-
And now Godwin’s disappeared on him too.
“Ah, Henry!”
Blinking rapidly, Henry tries to clear his blurry vision, as what seems to be a spot of ink rapidly approaches him. He blinks again and the ink becomes clearer, manifesting itself into the cheerful visage of one John Lichtenstein. There is someone next to him but most of Henry’s concentration is currently needed to keep his feet in place. Otherwise, he thinks, they might run away without the rest of him.
“How are you, my friend? What a delight to see you again, and with your brother by my side no less!” Lichtenstein gestures to the unidentified blob of green and Henry finally recognizes Samuel, who gives him a nod and an undoubtedly bemused smile. Shit.
“Shalom aleichem, dear brother,” he says with a hint of mischief that has Henry narrow his eyes in suspicion. “I take it you’re enjoying yourself?”
“Well, Sam, I-“
“Of course he is!” Liechtenstein interrupts and claps Henry on the shoulder, almost sending him staggering into a nearby table. “Young Henry must be overjoyed to finally see his lord wed, given what close friends they are.”
Samuel’s face does some interesting acrobatics, and he opens his mouth to respond, but Henry rushes to steer the topic into safer waters. There is a desperate, very drunken part of him that longs to just turn around and wail into someone’s shoulder at the thought of Hans being wed, and if Liechtenstein continues talking about their so-called “close friendship”, his shoulder might be the one ending up drenched.
“Aye, Lord Liechtenstein,” Henry blurts and through his – completely unnecessary from a sober point of view – drunken panic he actually feels a sense of relief creeping up through his stomach. Samuel seems happy, an air of relaxation around him Henry hasn’t seen before, not even when he left for Kolín.
And Liechtenstein- well, their last meeting was a hurried mess of blood, smoke, and fear and truth be told, Henry is glad to see him so cheerful. Nothing good usually comes of it when circumstances force the man to be serious. “And I’m glad to see you in good shape. Both of you!” There is a hiccup stuck in his throat somewhere and Henry coughs a little. “It’s been a while since- y’know. I take it your… efforts are going well?”
“Indeed they are,” Liechtenstein replies and shares a look with Samuel, who snorts, amused. “Sigismund is still busy with his Hungarian troubles and busy he shall stay – for now, at least.” He leans forward a little, a devilish smile tugging at his lips. “And rumor has it that our dear king is planning his escape from Vienna. If Lady Luck is on our side, Wenceslas should be back in Bohemia before the new year!”
And that’s good… right? That’s what they wanted. That’s what they bled for. Distinctly, Henry feels like he should be overjoyed with the possibility of their king’s return, but at the moment, there is only a dull sense of indifference where his pride should be. He pokes, prods it like a bruise.
”We could run away,” Hans had whispered into his neck, when they’d hugged one last time before the ceremony this morning. ”Pack our things, go back to Kuttenberg. Or Troskowitz! Bozhena and her daughter must have moved into town by now, their shack should be empty.”
Despite himself, Henry had chuckled in barely contained fondness. “Moving into shacks now, are we? And how would we make a living?”
“Must your lord do all the thinking for you? Perhaps my hunting or your alchemy – you are a man of many talents, you’ll figure something out.”
That’s him, ever reliable Henry. He’s begun to wonder why people turn to him with their problems and once he agrees to help, dump mess after mess in his hands, expecting him to just. Manage. You’re a bright lad; you’ll figure it out. Sometimes, Henry wants to shake them, yearns to scream ”But I don’t want to!” but he never does. Figuring things out has come from necessity – he had nothing after Skalitz burned and once again when Žižka ambushed and Hans left him, so it has become an instinct to simply pick up what remains and keep moving.
Henry’s intending to handle the marriage in a similar way. Pick up what remains, cling to it, and keep moving.
Samuel clears his throat and Henry stiffens, blinks, as the world comes back to him. So does the realization that he has been silent for a moment too long. Two pairs of eyes watch him, both similarly sharp, though Liechtenstein’s gaze is not quite as hardened as Samuel’s is. Ages ago, Henry might’ve chalked it up to the class difference between them, to Sam’s rough past and Liechtenstein’s silk-lined one. Now, he knows that most of it is a mere façade. After all, there’s a reason Sigismund had sent so many men after the spy – and a lot more for why few of them returned.
Henry blinks again. He feels like he might throw up.
“John, would you excuse us for a moment?” Sam’s voice rasps from somewhere, while Henry concentrates on not puking on the boots of a man he deeply respects and one who would bully him to kingdom come for it. “I need a word with Henry. In private.”
On the edges of his awareness, Liechtenstein chuckles. “Of course, Samuel. Take him outside, he’s suddenly very green behind the gills. The fresh air might help clear his mind – and his stomach, if need be.”
A strong hand grabs his shoulder and starts pushing him out of the hall, and since Henry might topple over if he’d tried to change direction, he allows this subtle act of manhandling with a weary sigh. Samuel guides him past seemingly endless streams of people, tables bending under mountains of food, a passed-out Godwin, and what seems to be a living, breathing pheasant on a leash-
And then suddenly, bright sunlight leaves Henry temporarily blinded. Cool evening air hits his flushed skin as Sam takes his stumbling legs – the rest of him still isn’t completely certain it has left the hall – to a shadowed alcove and sits his brother down on a small wooden bench. Smirks, then pats his head like Henry’s a fucking toddler who successfully took his first steps without going ass over kettle, before settling down next to him. The bench creaks under the combined weight of two grown men – and at least three barrels of wine – but miraculously, it holds.
“You look like shit.”
Henry snorts and runs a hand over his face. Out here, the alcoholic buzz is less omnipresent, less sickly sweet and sticky with the stifling air of the feast. His head still feels like it’s about to roll right off his shoulders, but at least the nausea seems to be slowly disappearing. Well, until he gets back up.
“And here I was, thinking this suits me rather well.”
He’s plated in ceremonial gear that would be rather unfitting for a battlefield, considering how thinly the metal actually stretches over sensitive skin, but even the blacksmith in him has to admit that the armor’s a fine piece of work. Familiar Latin regarding braveness and fortune is engraved close to Henry’s heart, the script delicately curling around the Lipa family’s coat of arms. Hans hadn’t taken his eyes off him during the ceremony, looking all but ready to pounce him the second he’d finished kissing his bride. Ahem. Anyway-
Sam cocks a brow, leaning back a little.
“You know what I’m talking about,” he huffs, turning his head to study his brother’s face. “This isn’t the look of a man who is celebrating his friend’s wedding. I grew up in a tavern, Henry, and believe me, I’ve seen plenty of people choosing to drown in ale rather than sorrow, if only for one night.”
Henry scoffs and tries to ignore the clenching in his chest. Sam has no way of knowing how much he tends to sound like Martin sometimes, even if it’s just in the way he doesn’t say things.
Don’t be stupid, his eyes tell him.
“I’m not feeling very sorrowful right now,” Henry argues, though he knows it falls flat.
“You looked like you were about to burst into tears when Liechtenstein called you Capon’s friend.” There is a surprising lack of judgement in Samuel’s words. Simply acknowledgement of a bond neither Hans nor Henry have really spoken of to anyone else – except for Jitka, of course. Henry buries his face in his hands and groans. God, Jitka. He has to tell Hans about their conversation sooner or later. Probably sooner.
“I just… I feel stupid for how much this affects me. I try to tell myself that he belongs to me in every way possible”, Sam wrinkles his nose at that, and Henry shoves him a little, “shut up. I’m not telling you about my bedding habits, Sam, stop gagging.”
His brother does a very theatrical shudder, but he’s grinning now, and something close to amusement blooms warmly in Henry’s chest. Maybe the alcohol makes him more distractible, maybe it’s just Sam’s presence. He’s always been grounding, despite the silent rage that clings to him like soot, the steel in his words. Henry sighs. Puts his head on Samuel’s shoulder and receives a huff in return but doesn’t get shrugged off.
“Out of every noble running around in Bohemia, it just had to be that goy, huh?”
“It’s not like I made the choice, Sam.” He would’ve, though, if he could. Given the choice, Henry would do it all over again. Even the pillory. Even Trosky. The bells toll for the twelfth time…
“I know,” Sam says drily. “Maybe God has a sense of humor after all. Upsetting his natural order, as the nobility calls it, pushing peasant and noble into each other’s arms.”
“God, huh? Yours or mine?”
Sam shrugs, Henry’s head bouncing on his shoulder. “Does it matter? It happened and now you must live with it. And honestly? Despite everything that might lay ahead, I think you two are going to be just fine.”
He doesn’t warn him of heartbreak. Doesn’t tell him that he should run before it’s too late, that Hans is always going to be a noble first and a lover second. Doesn’t confirm what Henry already knows, what he fears, merely-
Merely says they’ll be fine. Nothing more. Nothing less. And by God – no matter which one – does Henry want to believe him.
“Sam?”
“Hm?”
Henry coughs around the clump in his throat. His eyes sting a little. “Thank you.”
“No need for that, brother.”
They sit in comfortable silence until a distinct memory creeps back into Henry’s mind. A sly glint in dark eyes. A gaze lingering a beat too long. He straightens in his seat, turns, and gives Samuel a shrewd look.
“But – John, Sam? Really?”
Screw brotherly comfort, there is nothing more delightful than watching your sibling turn crimson.
“Oh, fuck off.”
~~~~
Nobody mentions the wedding night – until one day, Hans lets his gaze drift over the dark tree lines beneath them, comments “Honestly, what a horrid affair it was”, and yelps when he promptly gets slapped on the back of his head. Rubbing his abused skull, he turns, offering both his wife and lover a pout. Henry rolls his eyes at him. They’ve started walking the grounds together during quieter hours, enjoying the longer evenings of the oncoming summer, and, ultimately, each other’s company.
Jitka of Pirkstein, still somewhat Jitka of Kunstadt, is one of the most intelligent women Henry has ever met, and in the past months following the wedding, he has grown fond of her in a way that seems to get a rise out of Hans every once in a while. He’s not… unkind or cruel to Jitka, aware that she is just as trapped in this marriage as he is, though he keeps his distance whenever Henry is not around to guide the conversation.
Not that Jitka seems particularly saddened by it – she is currently preoccupied by a collection of books Musa has gifted her, after he’d paid Rattay a visit, and seemingly found “a lady in dire need of sensible and not mind-numbing literature”.
They’re friends, in a way. Henry’s glad for it.
“Well, be thankful that this horrid affair has done its job, then,” Jitka scoffs and takes a peek over the castle wall. She reels back, then, shuddering. “Ugh, I, on the other hand, am not very elated about the sickness and nausea your horrid affair brings me.”
Blue eyes flicker towards her, as Jitka absently brushes a hand over the growing swell of her stomach, then quickly look away, when they notice Henry watching. He sighs. Grabs his lord’s shoulder and squeezes slightly. Feels some of Hans’s tension melt away between his fingers and thinks good.
This is what he’s here for. This is what he’s always going to be here for.
~~~~
“Fetch some hot water, quickly! You, get me some svařák, will you?! And tell his lordship to send for that priest! Go!”
The midwife’s commands ring in Henry’s skull like the toll of a church bell and send a dozen maids, servants, and even, for some reason, a stable hand scurry out of the bedroom. Beside him, Jitka’s knees buckle slightly, and he readjusts his grip on her waist, before thinking better of it, and fully hoisting her up in his arms. All she does is groan slightly and the midwife turns at that, fixing them both with a stern look that makes something in Henry’s gut sink.
“What are you standing there for, boy? Get her on the bed already!”
He hurries to follow her orders, carefully placing Jitka on the linen sheets of the bed, stretching her legs, and arranging the pillows behind her head for more comfort. Then he stands there, utterly helpless. Henry’s never been present for childbirth. He’s seen many things for a man so young, a lot of them strange, almost all of them bloody, but this? For one of God’s greatest gifts, it also seems to be the most horrifying.
“Have you taken root or what?!” the midwife hisses, pushing him to the side, away from the bed where Jitka’s flushed face is a spot of crimson in washed out beige. “Out! This is a woman’s job, you oaf, you’re needed elsewhere.”
Somewhere from in-between the sheets Henry hears a croaked ”Wait…” but the midwife is already shoving him out of the room. The door closes behind him and there he stands, a little shell-shocked, a little flushed himself. Surprisingly, he is not alone.
“How is she?”
Henry turns to see Hans hovering next to the door, fiddling with something in his hands. Stepping closer he recognizes the beads of a rosary. Hans’s knuckles have turned white from clutching it. Not holding on in prayer. Just to keep his fingers busy.
“Can’t say,” Henry admits with a shrug, leaning next to Hans against the wall. “Midwife threw me out. Might be a couple more Hail Marys until it’s over.” He tries for a jest, but the hard line of Hans’s shoulders pressed against the cold stone tells him he’s in no mood for jokes. A sigh escapes him. Fucking hell. “She’ll be alright, Hans.”
His lord twitches. “You don’t know that.”
“Aye, I don’t know, but I believe it.”
Hans exhales shakily, not quite a laugh, not quite a sob, and rubs a hand over his eyes. “Careful, Hal, you might become a man of God after all with your endless belief. There is still time to drag you back to that monastery.”
Henry makes a face. Thinks of Brother Pious. Groans. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
“I fear that’s impossible. All my efforts so far have been in vain.”
“Perhaps you just didn’t try hard enough,” Hans sniffs, a smirk tugging at the edges of his lips.
Henry studies him then, just for a moment. Takes in the weariness around his eyes, the quiet fear buried in soft teasing. Something will change today. Irreversible and final, no matter what the night brings. They’re both aware what horrors childbirth can contain, how little a living infant actually guarantees survival – for mother and babe alike. But still. Something will change for each of them. If Jitka dies, if she doesn’t, if the child does, if it doesn’t. Blue eyes find Henry’s. Filled with uncertainty.
He doesn’t dare to hesitate. Doesn’t dare to think. Simply reaches out, watches as his lord’s eyes widen slightly when Henry places a hand on the back of his head, drawing him closer. Still, Hans comes easily, and Henry kisses him, right then and there, in the middle of a dim hallway, only inches away from a room where his wife is currently giving birth to an heir. There is symbolism here, somewhere. Henry doesn’t care to look for it.
They’ll be fine. All of them. And as long as Hans lips press back against him, as long as he feels his breath hot on his cheek, as long as they’re together, Henry will make sure of it.
They’ll be fine.
~~~~
At four in the afternoon, Jitka finally gives birth to a healthy and very lively son.
The boy looks nothing like him, Hans complains a tad bit sourly, until the infant opens his eyes and both he and Henry are faced with a blue so bright, the latter almost chokes on an aborted sob. Afterwards, they get to hold him – Hans grabbing the boy’s head a little gingerly, Henry careful and soft with his big, scarred hands meant for so much less than carrying new life. When Hans hands his son back to his wife, however, he turns to Henry, something cheeky sparkling in his eyes.
“From this day onward, there shall be two of you!” he proclaims.
His befuddled squire doesn’t find out the meaning of these words until about three days later, when Godwin comes for the christening and blesses the child with an all-too familiar name, just as Hans once promised.
Henry – the old Henry, the one who hasn’t been free of sin in a long, long time – does shed a few tears then, comforted by the weight of Godwin’s hand on his shoulder and his lord’s bright, triumphant, and golden smile.
~~~~
The boy grows, and things settle into a routine rather quickly.
Despite the insistence of both lord and lady Pirkstein that the pronunciation of their son’s name is still, after all, meant to be Latin, he becomes little Henry to Rattay’s residents the second he takes his first steps.
It’s teeth-rotting adorable when big Henry returns after days, sometimes weeks spent on the road, to see a toddler waddling towards him across the courtyard, waving excitedly. That is, until an overjoyed Mutt comes running, crashes into the screaming kid, and sends him flying into a pile of horseshit.
Mutt isn’t allowed near the stables anymore after that.
The boy’s first word is aye – the syllables are muffled and drawn out, and at first, he sounds as if he’s trying for German – which gets Henry into trouble with Hans – Jitka is too busy laughing in the corner to really make a complaint. Hans sulks, until a few weeks later, when a beaming face looks at him, flushed from a day spent in the sun, and goes “Da!”
The future lord of Rattay sniffs, wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, and then reminds Henry of the Groschen he owes him. Begrudgingly, his squire pays up – they’d bet on whether or not the kid would pick up on the concept of father before mother, but the happiness it brings Hans is worth every coin in Henry’s pocket.
Little Henry grows and he grows fast.
His hair is blonde too, yet a little darker than Hans’s, and when he starts stringing sentences together, he is more careful with them, as if testing how the words feel on his tongue before saying them out loud. He insists on helping Henry with Pebbles sometimes and promptly gets fixated on horses, becoming soft-spoken and surprisingly gentle in the process.
One day, when Hans has finally stolen Henry away on a long overdue hunting trip, when they’re lying on a cot next to the fire, spent and satisfied, Hans turns to peer at his squire and says: “Do you know what he said to me the other day?”
“Who…?” Henry, already drifting in and out of consciousness, yawns directly in his lord’s face. Hans squawks and pinches his cheek.
“My son, of course!” he huffs, while Henry grumbles and rubs at the abused skin. “Called me an imbecile right to my face! Me! Smiling as if he didn’t know exactly what he was saying!”
Henry raises an eyebrow as Hans settles deeper into his arms, still grumbling while he does so.
“It must be that new tutor from Prague – that buffoon has it out for me, I’m telling you.”
Henry snorts, fighting back another yawn. “Only because you’ve been antagonizing the poor man since the day he got here.”
“He insulted you!”
“He said I smelled like a dead horse and to be fair, he was right. I was drenched in, uh, certain unspeakables.” It had been a dead horse. And two bandits. And a sheep. He’d rather not talk about it.
“It’s a matter of defending your honor,” Hans argues and a low chuckle rumbles through Henry’s chest. “I’m serious, Hal!”
Hands card through golden strands, Henry muttering some form of sleepy agreement, while Hans barrels on, face heating a little. “And anyway – the gall of that kid! He should be thankful I don’t beat some sense into him.”
Henry hums, low, mouth twitching. “It would break your heart, though.”
A moment of heavy silence, then Hans coughs quietly. “Yes,” he admits. “It would.”
And as Henry drifts off to sleep, he thinks of a golden child wrapped in silk, blue eyes sparkling, swimming in a love so desperately fond, he has no choice but to grow up kind.
And he thinks good.
They’ll be fine.
~~~~
Little Henry is almost eight when his father finally receives his inheritance.
The whole ordeal does not go over smoothly – it takes multiple rounds of negotiation (which include Henry having to hold Hans back from strangling his uncle and Radzig, on the other side of the room, mirroring his efforts with Hanush), an appeal to the king, and a friendly warning from no other than Žižka until Hanush takes his leave. Or, well, is ordered to, more likely, but he still takes it with a fair amount of dignity and only a handful of curses directed at his nephew.
Hans, now fully in charge, immediately gets to work.
He’s busier now, of course he is. Henry still orbits around him, though nowadays his duties often take him elsewhere – into the woods for riding lessons, to the training grounds for sword practice. He’s more little Henry’s shadow these days, his guardian, tutor, and in some way, his friend – combined in a role nobody has really found a name for yet. Not that it matters.
“Take care of him,” Hans had ordered, so Henry does.
They still ride out together – both severely lacking the ability to stay separated for longer periods of time. And they still go on hunting trips, small adventures, but more often than not, there’s a blonde mop of hair tucked beneath the blanket between them, softly snoring in a way Hans swears he’s gotten from Henry, like one might catch the plague. His squire only chuckles and doesn’t tell him that the boy takes after Hans a lot more than they both realize.
~~~~
Mutt dies.
They bury him beneath an old oak on the outskirts of Skalitz. It’s just Hans and Henry working in silence – the ground is hard and dry from an impossibly hot summer, so by the time Henry places the small linen bundle into the grave, they’re both positively drenched in sweat.
“It’s strange,” Hans muses, after the hole is filled back up and Henry has put a small crown of poppies and lilies on top, made from the joint efforts of Jitka and her son. “I suppose part of me thought he’d stay around forever, that silly dog.”
Henry is silent. Doesn’t tell him that he had seen it coming long before anyone else did, that the distinct, careless way in which Mutt held himself became softer around the edges, more tired. That there were times when he had slept and slept, where Henry had to poke him with his boot to check if he was still breathing. That he fears that one day he’ll notice something similar on Hans too – details, signs of a fate bound to befall them all sooner rather than later.
But Hans looks at him with those blue eyes of his, cheeks red from a day of – to quote his younger self – unnatural labor, and Henry knows that he knows. Feels himself become undone under that piercing gaze, shoulders shaking, fists clenching and unclenching, until a set of arms wraps around him and pulls him close. He buries his face in his lord’s naked shoulder as a sob wrenches itself out of his throat.
“Oh, Hal. I am so sorry,” Hans mutters softly and the dam breaks.
They stand there, Henry’s quiet sobs the only sound filling the air, until the sun sets.
~~~~
Henry is just a few summers shy of 40 – he’s graying prematurely and despite Hans’s teasing, his lord has never been so insistent that he doesn’t shave – when an arrow takes out his left eye.
It’s a foolish accident – they’re ambushed on their way to Prague and in his diplomatic efforts to keep the bandits from bashing their heads in, Henry gets shot for his troubles. To be fair, the young lad whose crossbow goes off at the worst time imaginable seems downright mortified – an expression that stays until the end of his life. Which is exactly ten seconds later, when Hans slices his belly open.
Henry would be proud of his lover’s rage. If he could fucking see it.
Despite a lot of blood and even more cursing on both sides, they survive. Henry’s eye, however, does not, and the next time they see Žižka, the man promptly starts laughing so hard he has to lean on a very displeased Katherine for support. Her and Hans share a deadpan look, while Žižka points and wheezes.
When the man manages to lose his second eye years later, Henry does allow himself a triumphant chuckle, before sending his condolences.
Hans hovers after that. He’s just a touch more wary, a bit more on edge, especially in the first months of Henry adjusting to now only having 50% of his original eyesight left. Once, he trips over a bucket in the stables and Hans, in his vigilant attempt to catch him, goes plummeting right into a stack of hay, Henry in his arms.
They lie there for a couple of seconds, staring at each other. It’s early. Nobody’s in the stables. So Henry sighs and leans in.
Hans absently drags a thumb over the pink scar across his eye, pushing closer. His tongue darts over Henry’s bottom lip, sending a shiver down his spine even after all these years, and Henry sighs, content, opening his mouth, hands carding their way through blond hair – and stops when he realizes that Hans is shaking.
Henry draws back in confusion, though the thumb remains pressed on his scar. Through the hair and hay, he can barely make out his lover’s features, but they’ve spent enough time together that they feel each other’s distress – even miles away, as Hans sometimes claims.
“Hans?”
He doesn’t answer. Simply leans further down and presses their foreheads together, breath shallow, still trembling.
Something stirs, deep down in Henry’s gut, a glimpse of worry, the residue of old fear. “Hans-“
“Don’t,” Hans hisses and Henry’s mouth snaps shut. “Don’t speak. I just- I just need to remind myself that you’re still here.”
And oh, does his heart break a little at that. Henry draws a breath, feels the unspoken curl around them like smoke, but still nods and lets it be. Lets Hans map out every birth mark and stubble on his face, lets him kiss beneath his jaw right over the rhythmic beating of his pulse, lets him bury his face in his shoulder, and just breathe.
“I’m here,” he mutters eventually, long after his legs have gone numb. “I’ll always be here, even if it’s to haunt you.”
Hans snorts. “Would it truly be a haunting if I longed for it?”
Henry thinks about two distant figures sitting beneath a tree on a moonlit field and doesn’t answer.
They stay there for a while. It should be forever.
~~~~
Over the years, Hans’s health slowly but steadily declines.
It’s the little things at first – a small fever here, a longer lasting cough there, though nothing Henry’s remedies can’t fix. But he watches with silent dread and wishes he didn’t notice. Wishes he didn’t recognize the paleness of Hans’s skin to be a little off. Wishes he could look at Hynce, little Henry, a grown man himself now with broad shoulders and his own wedding band on his ring finger, and be ignorantly cheerful, when he asks how his father is doing.
Knowledge is a curse. Henry has never regretted the opportunities literacy has granted him, but now, for the first time in his life, he desperately wants back that peasantry's lack of education.
When he voices his concerns, Hans huffs around a cough and waves him off.
“I’m fine, Hal, just spent too much time inside. There is so much smoke coming from the fireplace these days, honestly.”
There is no smoke from the fireplace. It’s summer.
Henry doesn’t ride much anymore – he’s got a bad back and too many hours in the saddle have him limping like a lovesick bride after her wedding night. But when Hans asks him to go hunting with him for the first time in months, their horses are saddled before his lord has managed to finish the question.
It turns out to be a mistake.
They get surprised by a sudden rain shower – short and swift, uncharacteristically chilly for this time of year – and end up completely soaked. Henry puts Hans in front of a fire as fast as he can, but the sneezing he hears the next morning tells him it wasn’t fast enough.
A fever comes, because of course it does, and it takes Henry little to realize that this will be the last one.
Still, he spends hours slaving away at his alchemy table – a gift from Hans for his thirtieth birthday, expanded and amplified over the decades – , the room so stuffy with the smell of yarrow, ginger, and lime-tree blossoms, that Jitka has to drag him outside for fresh air to keep him from fainting.
By the third day, Hans is completely delirious.
No words come out of that clever mouth of his for perhaps the first time in his life and it’s the most harrowing thing Henry has ever experienced.
So, he talks in his lord’s stead.
From morning ‘til evening Henry sits on a narrow stool, aching back bent over the side of the bed, and chatters. His voice is rough and a little hoarse, yet his words are soft as he tells the slumped figure framed by green silk sheets rumors from the market, the kitchens, and the court in Prague. He spins tales of knights with hands made of pure iron, of dragons hiding treasure and secrets in mine shafts, and how the devil got beaten in a game of dice by a simple blacksmith’s boy trying to save his maiden’s soul.
Rosa comes to mind then, the flickering memory of a book filled with jokes, and a story that belonged to them, just them. He still writes her sometimes – she’d been married to some Polish or maybe even Austrian noble, Henry can’t really remember. Widowed young, he knows, and never sought out another husband afterwards. He can’t blame her. Not with Hans’s sweaty skin between his fingers, his shallow breath in his ear.
He really can’t blame her.
Henry brushes a strand of golden hair from his damp forehead and clears his throat for another story.
“There once was a young knight, the most magnificent in all the land, known by the name of Lancelot…”
And just as the tale foretold, Lancelot passes on.
Quietly. Almost gentle but without goodbye. As if not to interrupt the caressing wave of words washing over him. Gone. Simply gone.
“I’ll be with you soon, my love,” his Galehaut promises long after the priest – not Godwin, hasn’t been Godwin in a long time – has finished the last rites, and takes his hand, kissing the still feverish skin.
It pains him less than he thought it would, the knowledge that Hans has been spared the grief of letting him go settling in his mind with an almost comforting warmth.
He won’t be long now, he knows.
Henry will never let anything separate them ever again.
~~~
Somewhere beyond the castle walls, a new morning will soon crawl over the horizon. Chase the night away.
Now, though, the world is still wrapped in ink-black darkness, the soft glimmer of a few dancing fireflies the only source of light around.
On a meadow beneath a tree, somewhere beyond time itself, sits a young lord clad in red and golden fabric, and breathes into the calm silence surrounding him. Soon, they’ll be together.
Soon, it’ll be forever.