Chapter Text
Sir Hans Capon of Leipa, Lord of Rattay, walks back and forth in his castle, unable to find peace. The stone walls and banners are familiar, yet they feel like they belong to another man. His memories end years ago, leaving only fragments. He cannot remember the last years of his life and the absence gnaws at him.
Lethean poison, they told him it was called.
Hans repeats it silently, as though turning the word over might reveal the answer. But there is none. Every sawbone, scholar and alchemist he had consulted has confirmed what he already fears. There is no known cure.
He remembers only the moment he half-woke, with a strong hand gripping his, voices raised in urgency, and the unease of not being able to open his eyes. When he finally came to, it was here, in Rattay Castle, instead of in his usual chambers back in Pirkstein.
There was a woman beside him, his wife, standing at his bedside. Her face kind but unknown to him. Next to her was a boy of no more than three years old. Hans had no memory of a wedding, no memory of the years gone, but when the child looked up at him, the truth was plain. Hynce’s hair was as fair as his own, his eyes the same clear blue.
Hans knows the boy is his son. He should feel comfort in that. Instead, he feels only the hollowness of not remembering how it came to be.
He is expected to rule and take his seat as lord, but his memories end with his uncle’s domineering guidance. The following years are lost to him.
Outwardly, life continues as if nothing has changed, with his small family by his side and the castle running as it always has. They keep his memory loss hidden, yet whispers linger. The servants watch him too closely, their silence charged with suspicion. Even if he survived the poison, they know something about their lord is not as it was.
Hans first noticed the man during his recovery, a strong figure who never seemed to leave his side. He carried himself like a soldier, though his posture was looser than the guards at the gate, and his tongue far less disciplined. He spoke to Hans with a boldness that bordered on insolence, his words more fitting for a comrade than for a servant.
It did not last. In time, sharp words and the reminder of position were enough to put him in his place and his boldness was curbed. Still, the unease lingered. Hans could not recall ever appointing Henry, nor why the man seemed to look at him as though mourning something that was not spoken of.
At the urging of the chamberlain, an austere man from his wife’s house, his bodyguard was made to wear the yellows and blacks of the house of Leipa, just as all castle guards were required. It was a small gesture, but it left no doubt that his place was within the order of the household, not above it.
Hans cannot ignore how often his son constantly seeks Henry’s presence instead of his own. The boy clings to the man’s neck, laughs at his words, chattering at him with ease. The child seems wary of Hans, sensing the change in his father and the distance left by years Hans no longer remembers.
Henry vanishes from the castle for days at a time. When asked, he claims he searches for remedies, for scraps of knowledge that might undo what the poison has stolen. Whenever he returns, he is always seen at the alchemist’s workshop, the two of them bent over books and herbs.
Hans pays no heed to his bodyguard’s whereabouts. His days are filled with the duties of lordship, in stark contrast with his empty and dreamless nights.
Hans sits in the castle hall. The chamberlain is at his side, having brought him disturbing news. He listens in silence, wishing old Captain Bernard were there to guide him, but the captain is away hunting bandits in the countryside with some of his men. Even Hanush’s stern counsel would be welcome now, for Hans feels the burden of decision pressing down on him alone.
Henry strides in without so much as a bow. His hair is unkempt, with dark circles carved beneath his eyes. He looks worn, but his face burns with excitement.
“My lord,” he says, “I think I’ve found it. The cure.”
In his hand, a small glass phial catches the light. He places it before Hans with a kind of triumph. Hans studies the vial, turning it slowly between his fingers before setting it down on the table, his face betraying nothing.
The chamberlain leans forward, his expression sharp. “How fitting,” he says smoothly. “We were just speaking about you, young man.”
Henry stands unmoving, the flicker of victory fading from his eyes.
“I was just informing our lordship here that every ingredient for the Lethean poison was discovered in your room. Do you deny it?”
Henry shakes his head. “Of course. How else could I find the cure if I don’t understand the poison?”
The chamberlain’s lips thin. “A convenient claim. But you, a page, a soldier, a barely literate commoner, you dabble in alchemy?”
The weight of the chamberlain’s accusation is plain. Henry stands tall, refusing to flinch, though his hands curl into fists at his sides.
“I’m not falling into your trap,” he tells him, voice low and steady.
The chamberlain’s expression sharpens, and after a pause he leans forward slightly. “You know what I think?”
Henry lets out a humourless laugh. “I do. But you’d be wrong.”
The chamberlain doesn’t blink. “You poisoned our lord.”
For a heartbeat the room feels colder. Henry takes a step closer to the table, anger burning in his eyes. “That’s a lie, and you know it.”
Hans raises a hand, his voice level but tinged with unease. “Enough. Henry, you must see how it looks. Your chest full of ingredients, your long absences, your refusal to explain… It’s highly suspicious. I cannot simply rule it out.”
Henry’s gaze shifts to Hans, his voice cracking, his patience worn.
“I know it’s not your fault,” he says, grief barely veiled in his eyes. “But you should know me better than this.”
Hans shifts in his chair, frustration tightening his features. “And you know me?”
“Aye. A lot better than you know yourself, Hans.”
The familiarity in his tone strikes like a slap. Hans’ hand tightens on the armrest of his chair.
“Watch your tongue, or I’ll have you put in the stocks.”
Henry smirks faintly, though his eyes betray something deeper. “Last time I was in those, you were in them right alongside with me, your lordship.”
The chamberlain’s face reddens. “Preposterous. Stop spouting this disrespectful nonsense at once!”
Henry ignores him, stepping forward, desperation edging into his voice.
“Please, Ha…” He catches himself, correcting stiffly. “Sir Hans. This could make everything right again.”
He gestures toward the vial, still glinting on the table.
The chamberlain rises abruptly, face tight with disdain. “Or, more likely, it could finish the job!”
He snatches the glass before Henry can react and hurls it against the wall. The vial shatters, dark liquid splattering against the stone.
The silence that follows is thick, broken only by Henry’s sharp intake of breath as he stares at the shards, his last hope destroyed before his eyes.
“You swine!” he barks, turning on the chamberlain. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? That was weeks of work, our only chance.”
The chamberlain squares his shoulders, voice calm but cutting. “Your only chance at your treachery, you mean. You expect us to believe salvation could come from the very hands that brewed the poison?”
Henry breathes heavily, his restraint gone. “I’ve pulled him from death more times than you can imagine. If I’d meant him harm, he’d be lying in his grave, not sitting here while you whisper poison into his ears.”
“Do you hear yourself? You’re threatening our lord even now.”
Hans slams his hand on the table. “Quiet!”
Hans stares at the shattered glass glinting on the floor, his voice low but steady. “I don’t know what was in that vial. What I do know is this. Henry, you were supposed to be my shield. Yet, you have failed in your duty to protect me from harm.”
Henry’s shoulders sag at the words. “Aye,” he admits quietly, shame and regret thick in his voice. “I have.”
Hans’ gaze hardens, though the words taste bitter on his tongue. “I cannot keep at my side a man who could not shield me from the very thing that stole my past from me. You are therefore released from my service.”
For a heartbeat, silence reigns. Henry’s eyes lift to his, hurt flashing too raw to disguise. It is not anger but something deeper.
Hans feels a strange heaviness settle in his chest. Part of him expects Henry to fight, to shout, to refuse. But Henry only stands there, his blue eyes locked on Hans.