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Hans has never known the touch of desperation before the siege of Suchdol. But now, he knows what it means to suffer.
Hans has never gone hungry in his life, much less starved. The worst he experienced was an evening without dinner, after those nights of self-imposed exile, when he ran out into the woods to hunt instead of enduring Hanush’s look of disappointment across the table.
Those days seem so long ago now, like a story about a different man, foolish and young and careless, his troubles no more than pinpricks in the face of a great wound.
He listens, shrouded in darkness, as the praguers pound on the door. He listens to Peter’s wife behind him, crying, praying. The glug of the bottle as Kubyenka drinks. Footsteps, as Zizka paces.
That black, cold spot in his belly? He knows it is real fear.
Bravery, to him, had always been a knight charging gallantly into battle, armor gleaming like a shining beacon, unseating enemies from their horses with every mighty blow of their sword. Now, it means something different.
It means looking down at the arrow sticking from his chest, and choosing to get back on his feet. Returning to the front lines after the last of the men in his company had been covered with dirt. It means holding the string of his bow, his arm trembling from weakness, staring into the eyes of a praguer before letting the arrow fly, watching him fall, the white fletching sticking from his eye-socket like a flag.
It means continuing to fight, even as the shadow of defeat hangs over them like a stormcloud.
Even as the banging on the door gets louder, the pile of barricaded furniture rattling with each successive hit.
At least Henry is out, he thinks. By God, at least he made it out, and he doesn't have to die like a dog barricaded in a kennel.
He thinks of Henry, and his heart swells. This is a new feeling as well. Bright, and warm and vibrant, like a sun inside of him. It fills the space in his belly where food should go, and keeps him moving, long after he should’ve collapsed. It embraces him, brings him light, even in this moment of hopelessness.
Now, he knows what it means to love. And he knows he will fight every man in Bohemia to his last breath, if it means seeing Henry’s face again.
Then, they hear it, thundering like God’s wrath. Horses, hundreds of them, so loud it seems to shake the very foundation of the castle.
Hans can’t help it. He laughs in unbridled joy. “They bloody did it.” He shouts. “The reinforcements are here.”
—
The battle is a blur. Hans fights until he can’t see for the blood in his eyes. He runs them through, one by one, thinking of only one man, Henry, Henry, Henry. It brings him a second wind, and a third. He fights like a man possessed, fueled with the sun in his chest. His head feels like it’s floating.
The last man is felled, and the courtyard is oddly, terribly quiet. Hans scans the men left standing. There is his uncle, and Lord Radzig, and Zizka, and… Samuel. He was supposed to accompany Henry. They should’ve been together.
He has to catch his breath before he can speak, reaching up to wipe his face on his golden sleeve. ”Where’s Henry?” he asks. He can’t help an eager smile. He can’t wait to see him again.
The look Sam returns fills his heart with dread. He looks stricken, his sharp eyes looking all the more intense. He studies Capon’s face, and his shoulders fall.
“He said he would meet me.”
Hans can’t help but scoff. Right, so he must be beyond the gate, picking off stragglers. His words don’t make sense to him. “Meet you?” Hans repeats, not understanding.
“In Rattay.” Sam says. “To fetch reinforcements. He told me he had something to take care of.” Sam’s throat bobs as he swallows. He can’t quite look Hans in the eyes. “He never…”
The terrible truth of his words hits him like an arrow to the heart. Henry never made it back to Rattay. Sam had gone on without him. Why would he go on without him? His stomach drops. “You left him there?!” He snaps, in disbelief.
“He ordered it.” Sam says, sharply.
An ugly silence follows.
He can’t believe what he’s hearing. Surely there’s been a mistake. Hans looks to his uncle, whose face is stern, head bowing with sudden stoicism. He looks at Radzig, whose hands are trembling as he sheathes his sword, his eyes a thousand yards away.
Hans feels sick. No, surely, he had made it out of the praguer’s camp that night. He could be anywhere, lost on the road, injured. What if he needs their help?
He looks at everyone else, who is hanging their heads, heavy with loss. Why the hell are they acting like Henry’s dead? He knows Henry. He’s managed to make it out of worse situations than this, with one eye closed and his arm tied behind his back. He had to be injured, or lost. He needed their help, why won’t they stop staring at him? Anger builds in his chest until it snaps.
”What in God’s name are you just standing there for?” Hans shouts in disbelief. “We have to find him!”
“Hans—” Hanush starts, in a placating tone.
“He has to be out there—” There’s something tight in his chest, sharp as a needle in his throat, so tight he’s having trouble speaking. He points to the smoking remains of the praguer’s camp. “He—” His chest goes deadly tight. Don’t they get it? Why don’t they understand? Henry’s still out there somewhere.
They all just keep staring. Fury flares in his chest. If they aren’t going to do anything, He’ll do it himself. He storms towards the gate, someone tries to grab his shoulder, but he shoves them off.
He steps out of the courtyard and to the outer gate. The late afternoon sun turns everything before him golden. It had been a massacre. Bodies litter the ground, most of them wearing the red waffenrocks of the praguers. The camp has been trampled, half-burned, the embers still smoking. He can’t think about the battle, food, or rest, or anything else. His entire world has sharpened to a point. His ears feel stuffed full of cotton wool. He sees the bodies on the field, as far as the eye can see, and wonders if one of them is him.
His body is starving, exhausted, and injured, and the weight of this task threatens to crush him. Squinting against the light, he shambles to what remains of the camp.
He saw it in their faces, what they think, but it can't be real, not until he sees it for himself.
As he nears the field, he can feel someone in his peripheral vision approaching him. It’s lord Radzig, his brows knitted together with concern, surely here to try to dissuade him. Hans opens his mouth, ready to argue, but the look That Radzig gives him mirrors his own determination.
“I’ve ordered a search of the camp. Every able-bodied man is going to be looking for him.” Radzig says to him, with the true bearing of a lord. “ Sir Hans…” he says, softly, and reaches for his arm. Hans feels a spark of anger and yanks, but Radzig holds fast. His arrow wound stings.
“I know I can’t stop you.” Radzig says, and he’s looking at him in a way that’s almost pitying, but there’s grief behind his eyes, a shared concern. “But for God’s sake, at least eat something.”
He reaches for the pouch at his waist, and pulls out a single bread roll, soft and still shiny with egg wash. He offers it to him with one gloved hand.
Hans reaches out to grab it, and looks down at himself, the way his fingers are shaking as they close around it. He feels lightheaded.
Radzig shares a look with him, meant to be reassuring, but Hans doesn’t have time to spare.
He turns away, marching towards the smouldering remains of the camp. He rips the bread with his teeth, and his mouth feels dry, barely able to swallow it. The first mouthful makes his stomach turn, but his body urges him to take another bite. He doesn’t even taste it.
By the time he reaches the first body, he’s licking the crumbs off his palm. Death stares him in the face, empty-eyed and ugly. Hans’ stomach clenches. He walks past each body, staring into their eyes, looking at blood-stained mouths, heads busted like cracked eggs.
For the first time, he allows the thought to take root. Henry might be dead. What will he do, if he comes across his body like this? His face destroyed, his lifeblood drained? Those blue eyes, gone empty and vacant. Hans doesn't care if the sight he sees will haunt him for the rest of his life. Not knowing is worse. The awful things he’s picturing have to be worse.
Distantly, he can see Radzig’s men fanning out, bending down like farmers during the autumn harvest, checking the face of each downed man.
He hikes through the ruins, his heart jumping into his throat every time he sees a head of brown hair or someone with Henry's squarish build. His desperation grows wilder as he sees face after face, their glassy eyes and open mouths, white as clean linen sheets, men in unmarked armour that turn out to be strangers He plants his boot on a man’s cuirass, shoving with his leg to roll him over, staring at unfamiliar face after unfamiliar face.
There’s a sound behind him. A dog, panting. Hans’ heart soars for a fraction of a second, because if Mutt is here, Henry surely shouldn’t be far behind—
He looks over his shoulder, and he’s not there. Just Mutt, sniffing each body, making a meandering trail through the battlefield, close to Hans’ heels. He’s looking for Henry the same as Hans is.
”Come on, boy.” he breathes out. “Come on, your master’s out here, you mangy mutt. Help me.”
Mutt goes ahead of him, sniffing each body. There’s a man draped over a barrel, wearing a black pourpoint, and for a split second, Hans’ heart seizes, thinking they’d found him. Mutt gives them a cursory sniff and keeps going, his white nose splotched with blood. Sure enough, it isn’t Henry.
Crows peck at the bodies, flying away from them as they crest the hill. And then, there’s nothing. No more carnage, no more bodies. Hans has reached the end of the field. No Henry, not even a sign of him, not a shred of anything to show he’d been there.
The sun is going down, golden red over the hill, the sky streaked with pink and yellow. Hans looks back at the already-checked corpses casting long shadows over the field. The light is going. Hans can’t find him.
He can’t find him.
His armor feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, dragging him down. The adrenaline is gone, leaving his body an empty husk, weak from hunger and lack of sleep, shambling forward through sheer determination. He must have not checked well enough. He has to keep going. Hans leans down again to check a man’s face, and a sudden spell of dizziness makes him drop to one knee. Mutt circles him, sniffing the body, coming up to his side. There are footsteps behind him.
“Sir Hans.” It’s Godwin, his voice gentle and placating. He knows what he’s going to say, and he can’t bear it. His whole body tightens with dread. He feels like he’s going to be sick.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He snaps at him. “He’s got to be—”
There’s a sudden tightness in his throat, and he can’t finish his sentence.
Godwin does not leave him. He settles next to him, and kneels down. “It will be dark soon.”
Hans feels bile rising in his stomach. Henry’s out here, somewhere, and if Hans has to find him.
“I’m not going.” He tries to argue, but his throat is so tight it’s hard to get the words out.
“There’s no use searching at night. Come, Sir Hans. Eat something. Rest. We’ll resume our search in the morning.”
He can’t get off the ground. Godwin has to help him up. He eats a hearty stew but has no stomach to booze with the rest of the men. How can they celebrate? How can they laugh, when Henry could still be out there? He could still be on the road. What if he’s bleeding out somewhere, crying to Hans for help? What if he’s lying in the grass out in that field, crows pecking out his eyes?
He feels soulless and cold, like a part of him is missing. The food should taste like sweet ambrosia after so long starving, but he eats mechanically, his arm barely able to hold the weight of the spoon.
Under the table, Mutt pants, looking just as nervous as Hans feels. There’s no one here to feed him. Henry would want him to look after Mutt while he’s away. Hans sneaks him a few sausages from the table, as he always used to chide Henry for doing, and watches as Mutt eats them ravenously, just as hungry as the rest of them.
Hans is half listening, but he glances up when Zizka stands from his seat at the end of the table, raising his tankard high. He booms out something about their great victory, their effort, their dedication to the cause. “ –and as we drink, let us not forget our fallen brothers. Their bravery, their determination—”
Hans looks down into his stew, and tries to blot it out, anger boiling just under the surface.
“To Adder!” He roars over the table.
“To Adder!” the pack answers back, with a clap of tankards on the table, sloshing ale, their drinks held aloft.
“To Henry!” Zizka cries out, his voice ragged.
“To Henry!”
Hans slams his fists down on the table, hard enough to rattle his bowl of stew. He stands up, “You’re toasting to him? H-How can you toast to him, to his bravery, when you don’t even know if he’s gone?!” Hans snaps.
The table goes uncomfortably quiet.
Dry Devil stares at him, his craggy face pinched, eyes narrowed, but in the knit of his brow, Hans can see grief, buried under an exterior rough as weathered stone.
“It’s been days, Your Lordship. That man was made of steel. If he were still breathin’, you think he’d be off somewhere pissin’ about? He’d be right here. Sittin’ next to us at this table.” He shouts, pointing down to an empty spot on the bench.
Hans clams up, his throat tightening. It’s overwhelming, all the eyes looking at him. His eyes dart from face to face. Surely, he can’t be the only one. Surely, one of them has hope that Henry might yet live!
Janosh won’t meet his eyes. Katherine’s face is creased with sorrow. Musa crosses his arms, and looks pensive. The Devil, Zizka, Kubyenka, they all look at him with a stony expression, tight-lipped, their brows drawn with loss.
He can’t believe this. He can’t. Henry can’t be gone. Hans rears away from the table, nearly tripping over the bench in his haste. He has no stomach for celebration, for toasting to victory, or to Henry’s apparent noble sacrifice.
He storms away up the darkened staircase, his heart so heavy it feels like it’s weighing him down like a boulder. He rushes through the hallways, his eyes pinched, back to the room where they shared their last moments together.
He drops onto that bed, the sheets still wrinkled from where they lay together. Where they held each other, foreheads pressed together as Henry kissed him like Hans was his only salvation.
He collapses, and draws the pillow to his chest, trying to ignore the way his eyes prickle with unshed tears. The pillow still smells like him. Hans clutches it to his face, and inhales, his fingers shaking. The exhaustion catches up with him, heavier than any he’s ever felt. A black sleep pulls him under, like sinking to the bottom of a cold, frozen lake.
—
Hans wakes the next morning shivering, with aching eyes. But for once, he’s rested, he’s fed. He can smell Henry’s scent on the pillow held against his nose.
The same single-minded determination from the day before rises in him like a holy mission from God. He knows what he has to do. His body is hale now, and there’s no one to stop him.
He corners Sam after breakfast. Solemn and quiet, he tells Hans the whole story, how Henry saved his life and ran Brabant through with his sword. Sam had been too weak to walk, but Henry had carried him, had put him on a horse bound for Rattay.
Sam had begged Henry to come with him, but had no strength to force him. He tells Hans of his steely gaze, the way he stared at him tight-lipped. I’ll meet you there. I just have something to take care of.
He went after Markvart, Hans is sure of it. Sam’s story confirms all of his subconscious fears. He curses Henry in the back of his mind. He was so close, a stone’s throw from escaping. All he had to do was get on the horse with Sam and go. But instead? He’d gone after his revenge. It grabs at him like a fist around his heart, squeezing.
Sam looks at Hans with pity, and he finds himself rankling under it, lip curled up and nostrils flared. Sam puts his hand on his shoulder and squeezes it tight, and Hans tamps down the instinct to yank away.
“I know that you loved him.” Sam says, his voice gentle.
Grief, cold and sharp as an icicle shoots through Hans’ chest. Is this what love is? This terrible pain? His heart feels like an empty cavity. His stomach clenches. His lungs struggle to draw air, the inside of him colder than a blizzard. Dying in battle would've been preferable to this.
Hans retreats from his grasp, his throat clenched tight, his eyes sharp with tears. Why didn’t you stop him? He wants to scream.
Words won’t come. All he can do is look at Sam and nod.
“He’s out there. Somewhere. And I plan to find him.” Hans says.
“I will search with you.” Sam replies. It’s an olive branch.
He needs all the help he can get. Hans nods.
—
Hans returns to the destroyed praguer’s camp in the blue light of dawn, Mutt trotting along at his heels. In the absence of his master, Mutt seems to have glommed onto the most familiar person. Or maybe just the only one of them willing to feed him.
Although he’d made a point of complaining about Henry's filthy, ill-behaved hound, It had always fallen to Hans to watch over the dog anytime Henry had left him at the Devil’s den.
And now, it was a comfort to him. Hans reaches to the pack on his waist, pulling out a pillow case from the bed they’d both laid on that night, Where Hans had stared up at him, heart singing as he looked at his face in the dying glow of the fire. After the pleasure had passed, Henry had laid with him on that pillow with barely a word shared between them, his weight draped over him like a warm mantle. Hans had pressed his forehead against his, breathing his air, trying not to count down the moments before Henry would have to leave.
Looking at it now, thumb tracing over the fabric, his stomach clenches. But he refuses to be waylaid by his emotions. His focus is sharper and stronger than a well-forged blade. He has to find him. Henry would’ve done it for him.
He’d seen it before, the way Henry could offer Mutt a scarf or a shirt, tell him to track. He would sniff it and wander off, following a trail. How did you teach that bloody animal to do that? Hans had said. Henry just smiled at him, and shrugged. He always kept secrets.
And now, Hans is praying that Mutt will do it again. He bends down on one knee, scratching behind his ears, narrowly avoiding a slobbery lick to the cheek. “Okay, boy.” he whispers. “I need your help, understand?” He holds up the pillowcase, his heart seizing as he watches mutt sniff the delicate fabric. “Track.” he commands, and he tries to give it the authority that Henry would’ve given it, were he here.
At first, Mutt sniffs at him, confused. Hans supposes he had been the one sleeping on it the most, but the dog circles around, sniffing Hans’ boots, going back to sniff the pillowcase more thoroughly.
HIs ears perk. He puts his nose to the ground, and takes off at a trot.
Yes. Relief floods over him. He follows behind the dog, stepping over piles of debris, the ashes of tents, curled up bodies starting to go stiff.
The dog scares off ravens as he bounds over the hill. He follows a meandering path through to the center of camp, sniffing around what remains of a barn. There, Hans sees the mud stained with blood, drag marks where a body has already been dragged away for burial, and a familiar feathered cap. Brabant. Sam had said Henry had run him through.
Good bloody riddance. He thinks, lip curling when he thinks of that double-crossing french bastard.
Hans knows Henry had been here. It bodes well. Hope blooms again. Mutt sniffs for a moment, and then, looking up briefly at Hans, he puts his nose to the ground, taking off faster this time.
Hans jogs to keep up, the cool air stinging at his lungs. Don’t worry, Henry. I’m going to find you. I’m coming. He prays, as though Henry can hear him if he just thinks it loud enough.
He looks at every body littering the ground as they pass. He can picture him exactly as he looked when he last saw him. He cut a sharp figure in a black pourpoint, his soft-soled boots and a pair of gloves he had been gifted by a knacker. Hans can see him so clearly, in his minds’ eye.
Radzig’s men are out here again in the light of morning, cleaning up the remains of the camp and dragging the men by their arms into mass graves. Hans has little time to search. He has to find him.
Mutt winds between the burnt remains of two buildings, and comes to a stop, sniffing the ground thoroughly. Hans catches up, breathing heavy, watching as the dog whines and circles the area, trying to re-capture the scent. He lopes forward, nosing over the fabric of a downed flagpole. Hans recognizes the crest. How could he not? It belongs to Markvart Von Aulitz. Hans’ fingers tighten into a fist around the handle of his sword.
Mutt wanders into a small courtyard and stops. There’s a fence connected to a barn and what’s left of a partially-burn two story house, the roof caved in on top.
Mutt whines, sniffing the white-washed walls, the grass outside. He goes straight up to the door, sniffing the frame, where he starts scratching at the wood.
Hans’ heart is in his throat. He feels suddenly dizzy as a surge of adrenaline goes through him. He just senses it, that they’re close.
The foundation of the house has settled, and the door is jammed by the crooked doorframe. Desperately, pulling from a well of strength he didn’t realize he still had, he kicks the door open, a reedy noise gasped from between his teeth. The room inside is thick with ash and pitch black. Hans snatches a torch from a sconce on the outside of the wall, lighting it with shaking fingers.
Mutt is digging around in the dark room, scratching at the wooden frame. “I’m coming!” Hans says, as if the dog can understand him. Sucking in heavy breaths, he rushes back to the darkened remains of the house.
There’s barely anything standing. The interior wall is crumbled, the second floor sagging above their heads, the adjoining room collapsed in a pile of broken plaster walls and splintered beams. Hans steps in to get a closer look, raising his torch, and his boot nudges a golden, bejeweled goblet, that rolls in a lazy arc at his feet. Markvart was here. He just knows it. And if Markvart was here, Henry probably was, too.
Mutt sniffs at the goblet, at the beam criss-crossing the doorway, and the debris blocking Hans’ entry to the room.
Something instinctual takes over him. Hans throws the torch to the ashen floor. He digs his boot heels into the wooden plank floor, puts his shoulder to the beam, nearly as big around as his thigh, and shoves.
It’s like pushing against a rock wall. The beam doesn’t give. He lets out a hoarse yell, digging his heels in further, pushing again. He can feel the veins threatening to burst behind his eyes.
Henry needs him. Mutt paces back and forth nervously at his feet.
The beam creaks. Hans pulls back to catch his breath, and suddenly, there’s another face next to his. Samuel’s sharp eyes meet his own, and Hans finds his own determination mirrored back at him. He has a thick polearm in his hands, and with a grunt, he shoves it in the gap between the doorframe and the beam, acting like a lever. “Push!” He tells him, and together, the two of them throw their whole body weight against it. The beam creaks. Pebbles and broken plaster trickle from the ceiling.
Footsteps sound behind him, and when Hans looks up, sucking in air, he sees Godwin’s solemn face. He puts his hands on the polearm, and nods sagely at them.
“All together,” he says. “One, two…”
All together, they shove. Hans can feel the polearm crackling against their combined weight, the whole house creaking, the beam popping like cooking bacon as it splinters. The whole building shifts, rubble clattering at their feet.
“It’s coming down!” Hans cries out. He shoves at Samuel, and Godwin, and watches Mutt race ahead of them as they squeeze out the door.
The house groans like a great tree, the second floor caving in, collapsing like an unbalanced stack of books. Ash and plaster dust burst around them in a cloud, and Hans pulls up the fabric of his hood, trying to prevent breathing it all in.
Henry’s in there. He knows it. He needs it, needs to see him—
He doesn’t speak, and before the dust has even settled, he’s stepping in amongst the debris, kicking back floorboards, desperately trying to uncover the room beneath.
Samuel is right beside him. Together, they push aside the broken door, their hands grey with ash. He steps into the remains of the house, and takes note of a collapsed armor stand with a half-crushed breastplate, emblazoned in red and white with Markvart’s coat of arms. Markvart was here. Henry is fierce and stubborn, hunting down his quarry like a stalking wolf. He would never give up if he had the chance to avenge his parents’ deaths. He had to have been here.
Samuel grunts as he shoves another floorboard out of the way. In the middle of the room, a fine chair is on its side, blackened from the fire. Hans is fixated on it. He stares, his mouth dry.
“Look.” Sam says behind him. He runs his boot in an arc through the dust, revealing the wooden floorboard beneath. They’re stained blackish-red from blood.
His stomach flips, and for a moment, he feels ill. Whose blood was it? Markvart’s, or Henry’s?
He can’t speak through the heavy lump in his throat. He surges forward, shoving away a collapsed shelf with an animal grunt, trying to reveal more of the room. He kicks aside books and empty bottles of wine.
Hans, Sam, Godwin, and Radzig’s men tear the whole building apart.
They don’t find a body, not Markvart’s, and not Henry’s. Not one single clue. Mutt circles the room full of debris, and whines. Hans offers him the pillowcase again, begging him. Track. Please. Find him.
But Mutt just levels his eyes at him, licking his lips, his tail tucked down.
Sam and Godwin talk amongst themselves, trying to decide what to do. Hans’ hope is dwindling. He’s exhausted, gutted with feeling, and he doesn’t know where to turn. He leans over to support his sagging body, his hands filthy with soot and dust, leaving handprints on his green hose.
The conversation around him goes quiet. He feels the shadow of someone approaching, and when he looks up, Radzig is looking at him, stricken. Hans has never seen him lose his composure, but he sees it now, in his glassy eyes and the minute shake of his lip.
In his hands, outstretched, is a familiar sword. He knows what it is, but part of him is grappling. Perhaps he’s mistaken. Perhaps it isn’t as familiar as it seems. He moves slowly as he takes it by the crossguard, his fingers trembling, arms as weak as spring saplings. His thumb finds the ridges of the octagonal pommel, tracing over Radzig’s crest.
“We found it–” Radzig says, with difficulty, “–tied to the belt of one of their commanders.”
His mind goes blank. His ears ring. He doesn’t hear anything, he just stares at that crest, his mouth going dry. Henry would go to the ends of the earth for that sword. There’s no way he would have left it behind. If he was on the road somewhere, if he still lived, if he had managed to get through the camp undetected, there’s no way this sword would be here. The only way someone would’ve gotten it is if they tore it from his cold, dead hands.
Someone puts a hand on his shoulder, but Hans barely feels it. He puts the sword back into Radzig’s hands, and walks away, before they can see the truth on his face.
—
Exhausted, his head reeling, he struggles on coltish legs to the shadow of a broad tree. He falls to his knees in the grass and tries to catch his breath, his fingers dug into the woolen fabric of his hose. Henry is gone. He’s gone, and he’s never coming back. It aches like a physical pain. He sucks in labored breaths, and fights back tears that threaten to spill.
The cold morning has brightened. The sky is a brilliant blue, golden sun hitting his cheeks. It’s beautiful, but he’s never felt more empty. He can’t feel the heat of the sun. Mutt settles beside him, and lays his head in the grass.
He watches, as Godwin speaks in soft latin, saying a prayer over the empty shell of the house.
He watches, detached, as Zizka and Katherine arrive, solemn in their silence, how he holds her bowed head to his shoulder.
He watches Radzig set the sword gingerly on the ground. He watches as he goes to his knees, praying, his voice shaking around the words.
That night, when everyone is done patting him on the shoulder and saying their platitudes, Hans wanders off outside the walls of Suchdol in only his undershirt and braies. The wind blows through his clothes, stinging his skin, making him shiver. He kneels in the grass, and he clasps his hands together and prays.
Please, God, please, if you are merciful at all, save a spot in heaven for him.
—
There is nowhere else for him to go, and so Hans returns to the Devil’s Den. He doesn’t want to be here, but he can’t go home either. Home is being trapped again. Home means getting married. Home means settling down. Home means leaving Henry behind for good, going back to Rattay, and contending with the cold, empty space in his life where Henry is supposed to be.
He’s always hated schnapps, but he orders it anyway, and closes his eyes, remembering the taste of it on Henry’s lips.
Numbness turns to bone-deep sadness. He gets lost in the drink. He takes the bottle up to his room with Mutt at his heels. He slams the door and collapses on his sagging bed, his head tipped back against the plaster wall as he watches the room spin.
He looks across the room to where Henry’s things are still arranged just like he left them, a potion on the nightstand, a chest stuffed to bursting with the sleeve of a shirt sticking out of the side. A pair of boots, crusted with mud, lined up against the wall.
It’s like Henry could walk through the door at any moment, chide Hans for worrying about him so much, steal a sip of schnapps from his bottle with a crooked smile, a warm flush on the tips of his ears.
He knows it won’t happen.
Mutt circles the room, curiously sniffing at Hans’ nightstand, at the muddy boots. He jumps up on Henry’s bed, where his sheets are still rumpled from the last time he slept there.
A spark of anger goes through him, and Hans jumps to his feet. That’s Henry’s bed, and Mutt is getting his dirty paws all over the blanket, leaving his stink everywhere, obscuring the perfect fall of the blankets, the shape that Henry left in the mattress— he’s soiling it all.
He steps forward, grimacing.
“No.” He snaps at him, shoving at his flank. “Get down. Now.” Mutt looks at him with big eyes, and looks loath to move, but Hans’ insistent pushing finally forces him off the bed.
Hans snatches the precious pillow. It still smells of him; of herbs and sweat, the earthy smell that’s so uniquely him. Henry will never lay on it again. He clutches it greedily against his cheek, and he yanks at the blankets, pulling them off the bed, swatting at the dusty footprints Mutt had left on them like a maid beating a rug. He holds them against his chest, digging his fingertips into them until his knuckles hurt from the strain.
How does he preserve what’s left?
He goes to the chest at the corner of the room, but it’s stuffed to bursting, clothes, weapons, dried herbs, pieces of mismatched armor. No room for anything else. There’s a growing lump in Hans’ throat. He kicks the chest closed, and goes to his own chest, trying in vain to try to shove the blanket inside. It’s too big. He yanks his own clothing out without a care, tossing it on the floor, and stuffs Henry’s blanket inside, slamming the chest lid closed on top of it.
There isn’t any room for the pillow, He turns his cheek against it, inhaling Henry’s scent. As much as he wants to, he can’t sleep with it in his bed. Henry’s scent would be masked by his own, and then it would be gone forever.
His chest seizes with nerves, his eyes prickle. He feels like he can’t breathe. This feels worse than being in any passageway.
There’s a scratching sound at the door.
Mutt looks at him, warily as he scratches the wood, begging to go out. He paces. Hans’ hands shake. He’s looking for his master. The stupid animal doesn’t understand.
“He’s not coming back.” Hans snaps, his voice coming out ragged. “He’s gone.”
He crushes the pillow against his chest. Mutt whines at him, as if Hans can do anything to help him. He scratches at the door again, more insistently. Even he doesn’t want to be around him.
“Hes gone, don’t you understand? Gone.” he shouts at Mutt, growing loud enough that he imagines the other patrons can hear him downstairs. “Stop scratching the damned door.”
Mutt pins his ears back, and he scratches again.
Anger bursts in him like a broken bottle shattered against a wall, turning every part of him raw and sharp. “What now, you want to go?” He snaps. He throws the pillow onto his bed, and stalks forward, even as Mutt shrinks back. “You want to go out there? You want to leave, you think you can go find him?? Then go!” He yanks the door open so hard that it slams against the opposite wall. He kicks at Mutt, his foot connecting with the creature’s flank. He yelps, tail between his legs as he races out the doorway, and immediately, Hans’ heart drops like a stone into his stomach.
Guilt, worse than the pain and the anger fills his stomach like bile. He clutches the door frame, head hanging in shame. He imagines how Henry would look at him, in disgust, ashamed of him for treating his precious dog like that.
What kind of a man was he? Henry trusted him to take care of his dog. He knows it would be his only wish. A million little memories rise to the surface; Henry, calling for him to heel, to stay, whistling for him to attack. Henry in the grass, fighting off Mutt’s excited licking, laughing with joy. Henry’s face lit with the orange glow of a campfire, Mutt leaning against his leg as he scratched his ears.
He shoves the heel of his hand against his eyes, tears spilling out, pouring down his face. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve, and watches as Mutt’s white form disappears into the woods.
He shuts the door, and sinks to the ground, his back pressed against it. His throat goes tight. He’d fucked this up, maybe beyond repair.
Hans had always been a better person because of Henry. For Henry. And now that he was gone, he felt like an empty shell. He takes deep, shuddering breaths, tears spilling, dripping off his chin and wetting his shirt, his body shaking.
When he no longer has tears left to cry, he drinks. He turns his nose into Henry’s pillow, inhaling his scent, and stares out the window until the sky goes blue with early dawn.
He waits for scratching at the door, but it never comes. He passes out into a fitful sleep.
—
Hans can’t keep busy. He can’t do much at all.
Food is tasteless. His old hobbies, like riding through the nearby woods, hunting rabbits for game, it all seems like such a terrible chore. He can’t even find the energy to go to the baths.
Grief sits inside his chest like a cold and icy thing. It's heavy and painful, and impossible to ignore. The only thing that seems to ease the pressure is drink, and so he drinks. He stays in his room, and he broods.
Henry’s old compatriots, the Devil’s Den, don’t seem to understand why he won’t come out. Downstairs, Zizka, the devil, Kubyenka, Janosh. They all drink and eat. They talk, and they laugh and they make plans. It’s like nothing has changed at all.
Treadlight keeps serving ale. The girls at the inn still collect eggs from the henhouse every morning. The wind blows. The sun rises. How can everything keep going, when Henry is gone?
It’s been days, and Mutt isn’t back. He almost misses the creature. He thinks again of Henry’s disapproval. He would be furious at Hans if something happened to his precious dog.
He has to find Mutt. Shame spurs him from his bed, and forces him into a stained, linen shirt. He ducks into the kitchen, smiling weakly at the kitchen girls and asking for scraps. They must feel sorry for him, because they hand over a few scant pieces of dried beef.
He marches off into the woods, whistling for Henry’s dog.
The day is unusually cool, but Hans doesn't mind it. The cold sting on his cheeks is almost pleasant, after days of monotony. He combs through his well-known trails, looking for signs, footprints, anything. It reminds him strongly of Hans’ search for his master. Except this time, he is alone.
The sun dips down until the light slants red-orange through the trees, and still, Hans hasn’t found anything. He’s cold now, his hands trembling, skin spotted with gooseflesh. Defeated, he makes his way back to the Devil’s den.
He knows he’s close when he hears the sound of merriment and Kubyenka’s drunk yelling coming from the inside. He lingers at the edge of the woods, and squeezes the handful of dried beef in his pockets.
Lips thin, he kneels on the ground, laying it out in a pile.
“There, you mutt. Come get it.” he mumbles to himself. It’ll probably get eaten by rats, but Hans knows Henry would be cross at him if he didn’t at least try to feed his dog.
Regret sits heavy in his stomach. He should have never let his anger get the better of him. Mutt had only ever helped him. He was a loyal dog. A caring dog. He was there for Henry before even Hans himself. He didn’t deserve Hans’ wrath.
He takes the side door, so the men downstairs won’t hear him as he sneaks back up to his room.
—
Days pass. Hans exists. He drinks, and the emptiness within him starts to turn sour. He’s never been an angry drunk, but this is different. Slow-building rage makes a home in his chest, and he mulls over it, scowling up at the cracked ceiling.
Downstairs, they’re laughing again. All of them. He hates the members of the devil’s pack. To them, Henry was an asset. Hans remembers the day when Henry stood against Zizka. His head was swimming, his eyesight spotty, but he remembers the way Henry’s shadow had covered him like a protective shroud. You’ll have to take him first.
They hadn’t seen Henry’s loyalty or how much he was willing to sacrifice for those he loved. All Zizka saw was prowess. And he made good use of it, didn’t he? Sending Henry on missions across the whole of Bohemia, into the Italian court, even into the den of Sigismund himself.
Sigismund. Piss on Sigismund. Henry was sacrificed on the altar of the “greater good”. When they weren’t risking their own skins, they were happy to risk Henry’s. They treated him like he was disposable.
Not one of them truly cared about him. Not like Hans did.
He stares up at the ceiling, and his eyes prickle with unshed tears. Did any of them miss him? Did they think of him, every day, as Hans’ did? They had a whole future together, the two of them. Henry hadn’t even reached his thirtieth year.
Hans should have gone. He should’ve died in Henry’s place. He was too eager to follow. Fuck Zizka. Fuck the Devil. He should've gone anyway. What kind of a man was he? To sit back and let other people fight his battles? It’s what Hanush always told him was his job as a noble.
Hans would let all of it burn to ash if it meant he could have Henry back. He would trade his life for Henry’s in a second.
–
One dreary morning, the first letter from Hanush arrives, tan paper with a neat wax seal. With a glum sigh, he cracks the seal, and unrolls the letter, predicting the words before he even reads them. “It is high time,” his uncle’s scribe writes, “That you return to your rightful place.”
It’s more tender than Hans had come to expect. Between declarations of duty and honor, He pleads with Hans to come back to Rattay to heal from his loss. He can picture Hanush dictating to his scribe, his large hand scrubbing over his dark beard. It would be good for him, the letter reads, to be back with his people in his familiar home. Grief was a great burden to bear, by God, Hanush knew, but fresh air and a return to normalcy, taking up his familiar hobbies would do him good.
Hans reads over the words again and again, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He imagines taking that trip back to Ratty. He had come to Trosky with a crew of four men and his best friend in the world, and he would return alone.
Even if he wanted to go back, he doesn’t have the strength. Everything left of Henry is here, and he’s not ready to leave. It all seems like so much effort to be the lord of Pirkstein again. His dreams of exploring the world and travelling to the holy land seemed like nothing more than a child’s fancy, now. What does he have to look forward to? Being chained and married off like breeding stock?
The only bright spot was Henry. He was supposed to be there with him, through it all: marriage, his inheritance, taking up his mantle as the Lord of Pirkstein. In moments of weakness, he imagines what could have been. He pictures Henry, a warm smile, patient as he teaches a fair-haired child the right way to hold a wooden training sword. Henry would puff his chest out with pride the first time he parries correctly, as if it was his own son. As if he was theirs, together.
His eyes prickle again, but he breathes deep until the knot in his throat goes away. His thumbs leave indents in the paper, he’s squeezing so hard. He balls up the letter, and tosses it into the fireplace.
Wineskin in hand, he stomps back up the stairs to the devil’s den, lingering on the balcony outside his lonely room. The letter is gone, but the images Hans had conjured follow him like a ghost. He turns his gaze to the modest training ring just next to the devil’s den, and imagines them there, two figures circling each other in the ring. Henry, filling out the shoulders of his gambeson, a smile more brilliant than the sunlight. He can hear the child’s laughter. He watches as they spar together, kicking up dust. He imagines how he would stop, and bend down to correct his form.
Henry turns, as if he can feel Hans’ gaze lingering on his back, and shoots him that warm, perfect smile.
The pain is immediate. He feels like he’s drowning, no air in his lungs to breathe, his nose stoppered, his eyes glassy as he’s dragged down again by the undertow. Why did he leave him? How could he do this to him?
Anger, incandescent and overwhelming, rises in his chest. He slams his fist down on the wooden railing, and the sharp pain that shoots up his arm is cathartic. He turns to enter his room before someone can investigate, drawing the bolt shut.
He collapses on his bed, back against the wall, and stares at Henry’s empty bed with a face carved of stone. He can feel his lip trembling.
He thinks again, how the fuck could Henry do this to him? After everything they’d shared?
For that one evening, he’d tasted paradise. So bittersweet, but all-encompassing, heady like rich brandy. Henry’s rough fingers cupping his cheek, his thumb brushing over his lip. His body had been so solid, so real, it wasn’t a dream, or a fantasy. Henry was in his arms.
Joy? He had never known joy before this. Every moment, all of his shallow pursuits, all the brief moments of temporary pleasure, it all paled in comparison.
And then, before the taste of it had faded in his mouth, Henry left him. He’d gone away to get himself killed.
That was Henry, wasn’t it? Dependable Henry. Always the one who stood up to help everyone else. Running around Bohemia like a madman, doing favors for any bloody pissant who begged his help. He should have know that Henry would be the first person to volunteer for a suicide mission.
But what about him? Did he spare one thought for him? He must have known what this would do to him, that he would be shattered without him. He feels like part of his soul has been ripped from him like a limb, still buried with Henry somewhere in an unmarked grave.
Why didn’t he care about Hans more than he cared about everyone else?
Did he ever care?
Hans looks down, and realizes he’s squeezed the wineskin so hard that it’s sloshed onto his shirt. He curses, and stands, trying to get control of the anger welling in his chest. His whole body is trembling, unspent energy crawling under his skin.
He stoppers the wineskin and throws it aside. He grabs his bow and his quiver of arrows. His anger is overwhelming. He has to do something, he has to hit, or pull, or sweat.
He stands at the target and sinks arrow after arrow into the target, mindless of his accuracy, just drawing the string over and over, each arrow hitting with a thwack, until he feels like his arm is on fire. But the strain isn’t enough. His teeth clench, rage is like a bonfire in his chest. It’s not enough.
The bow hits the ground with a clatter. He looks to that training yard, and he hears his child laughing, his child that will never know Henry, the man who abandoned him, who threw his life away to kill a dying man.
His hands are trembling. His eyes catch on a sword leaned up against the fence, and before he can even think, he’s marching to it, gripping the handle. He draws it back and swings at the wooden fence post, feeling the impact shudder up his arms. He swings, again, again, and again, hacking at the fence post until it shoots splinters into the air like shrapnel. How could you? How could you? He breathes through his teeth, taking in gasping lungfuls of air. He slashes, his arms burning, his throat threatening to close. The fence post goes crooked, and he just keeps swinging, until he feels it crackle and break under the force of his sword. His back is straining.
A hand closes over his shoulder, heavy and grounding. “Lord Capon.” Godwin says, and his voice is rife with pity.
Hans ducks away from his hand, turning to look at him with wide, bitter eyes. They’re all looking at him, a sea of eyes from the Devil’s den, every one of them gone quiet, whispering under their breath. He hears someone laugh under their breath. Godwin’s face is creased with concern, and he can’t stand it.
“Leave me alone.” He snaps, between shaking breaths. His anger has drained out of him, and without it, he feels emptier than ever. A husk of a person.
He retreats, shame-faced back to his room, and as he asked, everyone leaves him alone.
He lays on his bed, and stares at the ceiling, and wishes, for once, that Henry’s dog was at his side. A dog cannot pity him, or admonish him, or impress upon him the importance of duty. He imagines soft fur under his hand, and he breathes deep, staring at the ceiling.
He doubts that the dog will return. It’s just another memory he'll never get back.
—
The next day, dark clouds come to the devil’s den. They blot out the sky, until there’s barely any light at all. It pisses down, forcing men indoors, and turning the roads to muddy rivers.
Hans drinks. He’s seeing double before suppertime.
Hans kneels on the floor next to Henry’s chest, digging through all of his things. Clothes, mismatched armor, herbs both wilted and dying. He just feels empty, so desperate for something. Anything. Along the inside of the chest, Henry had lined up almost a dozen tiny bottles. He had so many of these, hedge witch brews, as far as Hans was concerned. He’d never listened when Henry explained what they were for, and now he’d never know.
He listens to the patter of rain on the roof, and downs the bottle with an eye etched on the side. It tastes awful, but Hans wrinkles his nose and swallows it down. Henry made it with his own two hands. Hans had seen him at it before, brows furrowed, poring over his alchemical books, pumping the bellows. He bottled them and kept them like precious gems in his saddlebags, quaffing one whenever he needed an edge. It makes sense in his drunken mind. He can be closer to him. They can share this feeling.
His stomach turns. His heart beats fast. He bows over, hands braced on the lip of the wooden chest. He doesn’t feel any closer to Henry. He feels ill. Something darts at the corner of his vision, and he turns his head, trying to catch a glimpse. Nothing. Just a trick of the eye.
His grief is like a living thing in his chest. He barely remembers what love feels like, the sun inside of him blotted out with grief, like spilled ink. With it comes desperation. He misses him, and it’s so heavy, so painful. He can’t bear it. Death would be preferable.
He just wants to be close to him, to remember the parts that made him so joyous. There’s a little hunting path out by the den they used to take, a copse of trees, a clearing, a babbling brook. He pictures Henry then; his brow furrowed in concentration as he takes aim, the flex of his arm, how lovely his face looked in the cool, dappled light coming through the trees.
How he smiled in triumph when his shot connected.
He didn’t know how to define the feeling then, that twisting, stomach-flipping burst of nervous joy, but he knows what it is now. He wonders if Henry felt the same. How much time had they wasted, toeing the line between them, both of them too afraid to take the first step?
He wants to be there again, in that peaceful place. He gets to his feet, swaying, fingertips against the wall to keep him upright. He snatches his bow, with a half-brewed plan of shooting a rabbit or two.
When he opens the door, it’s still pouring. The rain is nothing. Let it soak him to the bone, for all he cares. He makes his way to the edge of the woods. The world is on an unsteady axis, shifting with every step. He forces himself to walk steady, with limited success.
He looks to the place in the grass he’d left the strips of dried beef, and finds the spot empty. He wonders, and for a moment, dares to hope, that maybe Mutt had taken them. It could’ve been anything. They could’ve washed away in the rain. It’s there, again. Something at the edge of his vision. He turns, and for a split second, he sees a flash of white fur. He blinks, rocking on his heels. Did he really see Mutt, or was it just the effects of that damned potion? He hoped beyond reason that the dog would return, but…
He sighs, and continues on. The trail is familiar under his feet, even if his boots sink into sucking mud with every other step. He tries to walk along the path in the leaf litter instead. Somehow, it doesn’t seem as dark outside. Hans can see into the depths of the woods. Even the sky seems brighter. He doesn’t question it.
Past this clearing, past the split tree, there was a little base camp there with a fire pit and a small lean-to. He and Henry sat there next to each other, close enough that their ankles had touched. God, how he wanted to shift closer. Close the distance between them. Touch him, and see if Henry would touch him back. But he didn’t have the nerve.
For a moment, he thinks he’s imagining the smell of the campfire. But it’s there. He can hear it crackling. There’s something in the corner of his eye, and Hans turns so quickly it makes him dizzy. He totters sideways against a tree, taking panting breaths.
Nothing. Just a spectre in the corner of his eye. He certainly hopes he isn’t going mad.
Something hits him hard in the back, sending him face-first into the mud, his lungs crushed so hard he can’t draw breath. There’s a man on top of him, shoving him down into the muck. The world careens around him like the tossing of a ship.
“He looks like he got money, don’t he?” someone says next to his ear. He can smell the fishy stink of his breath.
He turns his head to suck in a breath. He can see two pairs of boots next to him, approaching from the cover of the trees.
“That’s a nice bow.” one of them says, raspy. “Mind if I borrow it?”
“Get off of me, you prick!” Hans shouts, spitting out mud. He throws his elbow back, trying to catch him in the ribs, and before he knows it, there’s a sharp point of a dagger prodding below his ear.
“Let’s not be hasty.” The man mutters, mocking him. “You be good, and we’ll make it quick and painless for you–”
Thudding footsteps echo through the woods, and Hans hears a familiar, guttural snarl. It’s less than a second, the man atop him is screaming, thudding beside him in the mud. A brown and white dog has his jaws around the man’s arm, whipping his head side to side, sinking his jaws into his flesh with the strength of a wolf.
It’s Mutt. He’s come back. God’s wounds, he thinks, his heart swelling with joy. He’s never been more happy to see that dog.
The man is crying for help, hollering for his worthless cronies. Hans arm reaches down, his hand wet with mud, feeling the ground for the arrows that had spilled out of his quiver. His fingertips brush over a fletching, and he grabs the wooden shaft in desperation. He crawls forward, his jaw clenched, as he stabs the man in the neck. His hands are slippery with mud and blood, but he shoves it in until the shaft bends, until it hits bone.
“Kill him!” a voice says from behind him. It’s dark, but he can see clearly, the sword arcing down like a death sentence. He darts back, and he can feel wind from the blade as it whizzes by, a hair’s breadth from his nose.
He grasps for his bow, scrambling to his feet in the mud. Mutt growls, menacing, and launches himself forward, grabbing the man by his ankle.
It’s all instinct, whetted sharp from battle. From felling what felt like hundreds of praguers, fighting for his life on the palisades of Suchdol fortress. His fingers are slippery on the bowstring, but the arrow flies true, striking the man in the throat. He gags, stumbling back, staring at Hans with wide eyes. Mutt yanks him to the ground with a mighty tug.
There’s one man left, and he stares at Hans, his hand trembling on his sword. He looks like nothing more than a boy.
Hans reaches back to his quiver and finds nothing, his fingers grasping air. His heart sinks into his belly. He has nothing else. No armor, no weapons. He swallows. He can’t go like this, not after everything.
Mutt returns to his side, standing between him and the remaining bandit, hackles raised, snapping and growling like a wild beast.
The man is staring at them in terror. He turns tail, and with a hoarse yell, like a coward, he rushes off into the woods.
Hans sags with relief, his heartbeat in his ears. He lets his arms fall to his sides, so shaky his knees feel like they’re going to give out. Despite everything he’d done Mutt had come back, Mutt had saved him.
Hans stares down at the dog who looks up at him with wary eyes. Mutt licks the blood and froth from his jaws, watching Hans, stock still as if he might bolt off into the woods again. He’s afraid of him. Hans folds down to one knee, and reaches out a shaking hand. Don’t go, he prays, let me make this right.
”C’mere, boy. C’mon.” He murmurs, his tone gentle. He sighs deeply, and realizes that sorrow is thick in his throat. How does one apologize to a dog? Mutt bows his head forward, still watching him carefully.
”I’m sorry.” Hans murmurs. “I behaved like an ass. I—I’ll never act like such a fool again. Come back, and I’ll give you all the sausages you want, I promise.”
Mutt doesn’t budge. Hans’ heart seems to still in his chest. He swallows hard. And then…
Mutt leans forward, hesitantly sniffing his fingers. His wet nose brushes against his dirty hand.
The relief makes him go weak. His shoulders sag, his lip trembles. He carefully, gently reaches forward, scratching Mutt behind the ears.
When he speaks, his voice comes out rough. “Good boy. Good boy, Mutt.”
Side by side, they stagger back to the devil’s den, soaking wet, covered in mud and blood, shivering in the cold. The rain slows to a sprinkle, and finally stops altogether, leaving a humid mist behind. He’s still drunk, but he manages to stay upright for the short journey, sighing in relief when he sees that ragged, dirty building.
The Devil, lingering outside with crossed arms, raises an eyebrow as they approach. “What the hell happened to you?” He mutters with an amused quirk of his lips.
“We came across a few fools that needed taking care of.” Hans says, with an answering grin. “Where’s Janosh? I need to beg a favor.”
–
Hans scrubs the mud off of Mutt’s legs with a rag, and wipes the blood off his jowls with a gentle hand. Then, he goes across the road and bathes, for the first time in a week. The warm water smells like lavender and feels like heaven, slowly returning the feeling to his bones.
Clad in clean clothes, with a tankard of ale in hand, he parks himself in front of the fire. He can’t remember the last time he was in the common area, sharing the company of others.
He watches as Mutt sits before the fire, devouring an entire plate stacked high with sausages. Hans puffs up with pride. He can’t stop smiling.
“If that dog throws up on the floor, Capon, you’ll be the one to clean it up!” the Devil warns him with a sharp grin.
Hans just smirks at him over the rim of his tankard.
Godwin sits across the table from him, drink in hand, and gives him a placid smile. “It’s good to see him back home.”
Hans’ eyes go soft, and he speaks fondly, “Indeed, it is.”
—
Warm with food, ale, and company, Hans collapses into his bed, exhausted. Mutt looks just as exhausted as he feels, and as he enters Hans’ room, he flops down next to the bed, his belly round with sausages.
“Sleep well, silly doggy.” Hans murmurs to himself. Mutt snores. The fire crackles. His eyes drift shut.
Hans dreams.
He’s laying on his back, looking up at a rich, blue sky full of stars. For a moment, he thinks he’s back in his poacher’s camp near Trosky, but it’s not quite right. The grass beneath him is as soft as a woolen carpet, and there’s no canopy of trees blocking the view. He can feel the breeze. It’s peaceful.
Next to him, he can feel warmth pressed up against his arm. A familiar smell, like herbs and road dirt and tanned leather. It smells like heaven. He tips head to the side, and he feels Henry’s temple against his, his short-shorn brown hair, his balmy skin. He can hear his breath, feel the rise and fall of his chest. He’s alive, so sweet and alive.
A calloused hand wraps around his, and Hans’ heart jumps, warmth suffusing through his body. That rough thumb brushes over his, tracing the ridge of his knuckle.
“Tired, my Lord?” Henry says, the way he uses his title is little more than a joke between them.
“You’ve been out for hours.”
Hans’ body glows with pure, unfettered happiness. In one quick movement he lets go of his hand and rolls over his waist, reaching up to cup his face and feel his stubbly cheeks in his hands. Henry looks up at him with his droopy blue eyes, an unguarded smile on his face, glowing with adoration. The lump in Hans’ throat won’t go away.
“Eager?” Henry says, a smug lilt to his tone.
Hans will show him how eager he is. He bows down until his lips find his again. He feels the same jolt all the way through his body, warmth down to the roots of his hair, just like the first time. He’d been so scared, god he’d been so scared, but the only thing more terrifying was letting Henry walk away from him not knowing how much Hans loved him.
Henry’s eyes drift shut, and he rises to meet each bruising kiss with a shuddering breath. HIs broad hand cups the back of his head, carding through the hair at the nape of his neck.
When Hans parts for breath, he stares down at Henry, looking at his heavy brow, his nose, his ruddy cheeks, his wide ears, trying to memorize every detail.
“I miss you.” He says, his voice breaking.
Henry looks up at him with quiet amusement, his hand settling naturally into the curve of his spine, so easy and comfortable. He strokes up his back, and absently, Hans thinks this is how it’s supposed to be. This is what they should have had, years more of Henry’s hand nestled in the small of his back. Henry should be with him; hunting together, fighting side by side, sleeping next to him with his handsome face cradled in his hand. He wanted to spend his time with Henry, watching his eyes wrinkle and his hair slowly turn silver year over year.
“I miss you, too.” Henry murmurs. “But we’ll see each other again, ‘fore too long.”
“You promised you would come back.” Hans says, his voice coming out more ragged than he intended. Henry’s face goes more solemn. He lets out a shaky breath between them.
“I’m sorry.” He says, staring into Hans’ face like he doesn’t understand why he’s so upset.
“You should have let me come with you. Why didn’t you let me come?”
Henry looks up at him, his brow creased, lips tight. He looks ashamed of himself, but the only answer he gives is a slight shake of his head. It’s agonizing.
Hans is tense, his heart thudding in his chest. His fingers dig into Henry’s shirt, and he finds he’s wearing the same black pourpoint that he had last seen him wearing. The one he died in.
“Kurva, Henry.” Hans says, his voice coming out ragged. “I don’t want to go on without you.”
“Ah, come now. Chin up.” Henry says. He’s so nonchalant about it all, as if Hans were complaining about a particularly bad game of dice. His smile is so soft and easy. He thumbs at Hans’ cheek, beneath his eyes where wetness is starting to gather, and Hans can feel the lump rise in his throat. “After all we accomplished, you can’t give up now.”
Hans doesn’t have a good answer to that. He whimpers, and wraps his body around him, burying his face into his throat. He inhales that familiar scent, feels his heat, tries to stave off the sorrow he can feel threatening to spill over. If this is his last moment with Henry, he wants to savor it.
When he leans up again, they’re no longer in a field of soft grass, but laying on the wooden floor of a dark room. Behind him, a fire crackles, rimming Henry’s face in gold. Next to their head, a golden goblet rolls lazily, spilling out a puddle of red wine. He hates the sound of it, repetitive and metallic.
He stares down at Henry, and he sees something dark and wet staining his black pourpoint. He looks down at himself, and it’s all over him, bright red seeping into gold, staining him from throat to waist. Henry’s blood, his life, is spilling out of him.
He panics, and mashes his hands down over the wound, desperately trying to staunch the flow. He’s bleeding out. It’s going so quickly. It’s puddling around them on the floorboards, soaking into the knees of his hose. He can barely breathe. “I—I’ll get help, I’ll—”
“Hans.” Henry says, and it’s the same voice he might use on pebbles if he were trying to soothe her. He gently prises his hands from his chest, thumb pressing into his bright red palm, gentle, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “It’s alright.”
“No,” Hans snaps, horrified. He yanks his hand away, and presses it against his wound, even as blood rises from beneath his fingers. “No, I’m here, I can help you!”
“It’s alright.” Henry repeats. “It’s already over.” He reaches for his hand again, and this time, Hans’ arm goes limp, and he lets Henry take his hand.
It’s red with blood, his fingers are dripping with it, dark and pungent. Henry looks at him with his sweet gaze. Tears run down his face, dripping down his lips, falling onto Henry’s chest in wet droplets.
“I told you, I’ll see you soon.” Henry murmurs. “No use sitting here waiting on me. ”
He doesn’t understand, but he can sense the finality. His words shock fear into him, and he squeezes Henry’s hand tightly. He brings his bloody fingers to his lips with trembling hands, kissing them until red stains his face. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“Ah, I know you don’t, Sir Hans.” Henry says. His voice is weaker, quieter. “But you can’t stay here forever.” His hand tangles with Hans’, and he tugs him down to his level, pressing a kiss against Hans’ lips, soft and faint as a whisper.
“No, please…” Hans’ hands grab for his shirt, holding onto him, as if he can anchor himself to him. But the harder he holds, the less he can feel the fabric, Henry’s weight feels lighter and lighter, his grip on his pourpoint weaker. The scene is starting to go fuzzy around the edges. Anguished, Hans tries to cling to it. It feels like his heart is being yanked out of his chest. He can’t leave him there, bleeding out, alone in that dark room. He has to go back.
Hans’ eyes open, and he stares at the cracked ceiling of the devil’s den, breathless, his cheeks wet with tears. He tips his head to the side, hoping desperately he might feel Henry’s temple brush up against his. He raises his hands up to find them clean and pale. A dream. Only a dream.
His hands drop to the bed, listless. His chest is like a gaping, open wound. Why did he have to go? His chest heaves, and a trickle of tears becomes a river. He sobs, Ugly sobs that burst out of him like animal cries, that make his throat raw. The pain, more terrible than any he’s ever felt, lingers like a weight in his chest, crushing him, a burden so heavy he’ll never be able to carry it.
He hears the click of claws against the wooden floor, and a heavy weight settles on the edge of the bed, dog feet digging into the mattress. He steps right up to Hans, like he understands, like he shares the same sorrow. As though he misses Henry just as much as he does.
He leans up and buries his face into Mutt’s white fur, his chest shaking with each labored breath. He wraps his arms around the dog, fingers digging into the back of his neck, just running over his fur, trying to soothe himself and Mutt both.
He sobs, and sobs, while Mutt leans his heavy head against his chest. The love inside of him is like a weight, heavier than any chain. If it’s the price he has to pay for knowing Henry, for loving him, then he’ll carry it for the rest of his life.
—
It’s a warm day when Hans arrives back to Rattay. He steers his horse through the center of town at a loping gait, taking it all in, as Mutt walks at a trot beside him. It’s like nothing has changed at all. Beggars beg at the gates. The market is bustling with vendors and shoppers. The blacksmith clangs away at a new piece. He can smell the comforting, familiar smell of roasting chicken at his favorite tavern. He looks upon his town with new eyes, for once appreciating all the things he used to take for granted. It feels like the only thing that has changed is him.
As well as one other thing. For just a moment, he lets himself feel that ache. He shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath in. Henry should be here.
He makes his way to the castle gates. Hans’ horse trots over the drawbridge, and Hans looks up, taking in the large castle. His birthright. His home.
A wan smile comes to his face when he sees that his uncle is there to greet him, his fingers hooked into his fine belt. There’s even something like pride on his face, and Hans can feel himself sitting up straighter, suffused with warmth.
He dismounts on shaky legs, and Hanush embraces him. He gives him a hearty slap on the back, and it almost knocks the breath out of him. “Good to see you back home, lad.” Hanush murmurs.
Someone comes to take his horse and unload his saddlebags, a luxury he hasn’t experienced in some time. Mutt looks up at him, and sniffs around the courtyard, re-acquainting himself with his old home.
He and Hanush catch up. He brings him news about the war, about how Lord Radzig is faring. He laughs at how Sigismund had retreated from Bohemia with his tail between his legs. It takes no time at all for him to begin going on about the wedding, complaining about the cost of it all, the petty squabbles with bakers and butchers.
“– but forget about all that tripe. It’s been a damned long trip. Let us have a drink.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Hans answers.
Mutt returns to his side, rubbing up against his legs, panting, licking the drool from his jaws. Fondly, Hans thumps him on the side, scratching at his back as he wags his tail.
“You aren’t bringing that filthy beast inside, are you?” Hanush says snidely.
Hans just smiles. ”Watch your tongue, uncle. That’s my dog.”