Chapter Text
Henry entered Hans Capon’s chambers last, knowing it’d be the hardest goodbye yet.
His steps dragged on the floor, echoing a song of apologies and promises Henry would never say, or couldn’t say. He had planned a speech, one that he prayed wouldn’t demolish Hans’ brittle hope. It might be Henry’s last words to him. But how could he say what he wanted without breaking the boundaries of a lord and his subject?
When Henry walked in, he saw Hans sitting on the bed, his blue, sorrowful eyes glued to the ground. Instantly, all the words he’d prepared left him. He froze at the door, a pathetic attempt to delay the inevitable. If only for a few moments, Henry wanted to linger in Hans’ silence, unnoticed and undisturbed. Those were the last few seconds before they’d utter the dreaded words to each other.
Henry took a deep breath as he stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him before accompanying Hans on the bed. Still, Hans refused to spare a passing glance, probably too encumbered by his own thoughts. Within the last few months, Henry had seen Hans in multiple stages of despair, but this one was different— heavier, quieter, somber. Despite the darkness of the room, illuminated by nothing but the crackling fire against the wall, Henry could see Hans’ anxiety.
The bed creaked under Henry’s weight, finally pulling Hans from his spell. For once, he didn’t speak. He didn’t complain or whine. He sat in eerie silence, looking straight at the fireplace as if it held the answers to defeating Sigismund. Rather than leading the conversation, Henry followed his trail of sight and allowed the stifled room to breathe.
Neither wanted to speak first. Thus, they held their silence. But the night wouldn’t get any younger, and Henry would rather share a few words than leave with the knot in his throat left tangled. Thus, he broke the silence.
“I’ve come to say goodbye,” Henry said. The hollowness of the room amplified his voice, which carried anguish disguised as calm.
Hans’ voice, however, did little to hide the pain he carried in his chest. He sounded terribly small as he recalled the tale of two knights. As he spoke, Henry saw droplets of sweat racing from his neck to his shoulders, where he lost sight of them.
Between the nerves raised by the mission and the reluctance to part ways, Henry could hardly focus. There was an invisible tug pulling him towards Hans; a need to comfort and ease his fears. But he knew that the longer he’d stay, the more it’d hurt. Not just Hans, but Henry, too, who had temptations simmering in his stomach waiting to burst if he so lingered his hand on Hans’ for too long. Yet, when he had tried walking away, it was Hans who pulled him close.
Henry nearly regretted staying.
The act of kissing back violated the oath he’d given to Sir Hanush. He promised to protect his nephew, yet he’d just put Hans’ life on the line. They were descending to a place neither could escape. But Henry soon realized he’d run out of space to care. The desire to kiss Hans had forced itself into dormancy for so long— Henry had nearly forgotten it’d been there since the Trosky Castle. He respected Hans and his title as the future Lord of Rattay too much to even conceive the idea that his feelings could be reciprocated.
They shed their clothes piece by piece until their naked bodies pressed together in a heated duel, more exhilarating than any. Within that sword fight, they shared their battle cries and surrendered to each other in a way that changed their relationship forever.
Hans moaned silently as Henry caressed his body like a freshly sharpened sword. Gleaming and scalding under the warm light of the fire.
It should’ve intimidated Henry, caressing a friend and companion intimately; he’d get sent to the gallows before he could utter a prayer. But it felt natural. They slotted into their spots blindly, as if they’d rehearsed this moment in their dreams. Any awkwardness diminished into the background. The arousal muted everything in the world until only they remained. Nothing else mattered, not when Henry grasped both of their members and stroked until his hand became slippery with pre-cum.
Hans had yet to recover from the fear he felt when Henry had walked away from their kiss. The excitement and doom had created a wicked concoction that left his mind buzzing until his head spun and left him dizzy. Still, he wanted more. He wanted to give Henry that which he felt when at the bathhouses. Or better. The fleeting touches and bruising kisses couldn’t satiate his hunger, as kind as they were. He wanted something real— something that they’d both feel until the night had fallen and dawn brightened the skies with a new day.
Henry’s hand traveled further south and pinched his thighs. Hans felt an itch somewhere nearby that perhaps Henry didn’t know how to scratch. Neither did he. Then he remembered yet another tale, one his mother had written about in a book she had gifted him the day he saw her last.
A scribe in Constantinople had shared a tale with her about two refugees named Nisus and Euryalus. After being displaced by the war, they found solace in each other. As tensions in the war escalated, Nisus refused to sit idle. He planned an attack against the enemy, and Euryalus insisted on accompanying him. Together, they fought valiantly until the enemy captured and murdered Euryalus. In a fit of both rage and anguish, Nisus charged at his enemies without a care for his own safety. Thus, after killing the leader, Nisus succumbed to his wounds. With his last breath, he fell upon Euryalus’ lifeless body.
As a child, Hans hated the story and thought of Nisus as a fool for his reckless behavior. But now, Hans resonated with that burning desire to remain by his companion’s side. He, too, would accompany his Nisus anywhere, even if it meant certain death, much like now.
Hans, however, couldn’t follow Henry like he desperately wanted. But there was something the scribe had commented at the end of the tale— something rather crude that made his heart stutter and body tingle as if a thousand ants crawled over his body. Something that Euryalus might’ve offered to Nisus while he still had the chance.
“Henry,” Hans said in a whisper, his voice quivering with insecurity. “Do you remember the book I had once asked you to borrow for me?”
Henry pressed kisses along Hans’ collarbones. As he went, he answered, “Borrowed is a light word for it; you wanted me to steal it from Sir Hanush.”
“Same difference.” Hans’ breath hitched as Henry lightly nibbled on his earlobe. He struggled to continue his sentence. “So, then, you remember.”
“What about it?”
“I was scared to admit it at the time, but that book is very dear to me. It was a parting gift from my mother. Bloody Hanush took it from me when I was little for whatever reason and refused to return it to me. If I dared to ask, he’d turn it into another stupid lecture, so I stopped asking before I lost my goddamn mind.”
Henry glanced at their naked bodies before looking at Hans, equal parts amused and confused. He had a talent for spouting nonsense at inconvenient times. Somehow, Hans had captured Henry’s heart in such a way that he didn’t find him annoying, but endearing. Still, during such an intimate moment, Henry wasn’t in the mood for a conversation involving Hans’ family members.
“Why are you talking about this now?”
It was the second time he had asked that night.
“I remembered something vaguely mentioned at the end of the book, about certain… nightly activities between men like Nisus and Euryalus.”
Henry’s head turned to the side like a confused puppy. “Euro… Eura… Who?”
“They… never mind. That’s not important right now.”
“Right. Your mother. It doesn’t sound like those ‘nightly activities’ were too appropriate.”
“Quite. It seems rather crass of her, I suppose. Though I’m sure she kept that side of hers private.”
Henry chuckled. “I reckon that’s where you get it from.”
Hans’ face turned red. He averted his gaze toward the wall. “That’s not the point,” he said with a stutter. “The point is that I… I wish to try it with you.”
Henry’s body stiffened. With furrowed brows, he pulled back and stared at Hans. He blinked a few times, wondering if his ears deceived him. Or maybe he misunderstood.
“Do you mean sodomy?”
The word carried a heavy weight. Most people uttered it with hatred in their hearts. It was a sin, an act against the divine word of God. Hans and Henry heard it plenty, more times than they could count. But to hear a word and practice its meaning were two different subjects. They both knew what it meant, what they were condemning themselves to. And yet, they lay unafraid, unwavering. A hair’s breadth apart.
“Yes, I suppose… As an act of devotion of sorts.”
Henry’s heart fluttered, and he smiled. He held Hans’ chin between his fingers and moved his head until their eyes met again. In those combinations of blues, a spark flickered.
Henry dug in for another kiss— rabid, passionate, and sensual. Their lips had become well-acquainted; they moved in tandem. In swift moves, Henry reached for his pouch from the pile of sheets and undergarments beside the bed, all while keeping his lips on Hans’ body. Everything moved so fast; Hans hadn’t registered when his legs had spread and Henry slid in between them. Just when had he clutched a phial of oil?
Henry, on the other hand, observed Hans’ every move as if to carve it into his memory. He’d never forget what Hans looked like when lost in pleasure, completely submitting beneath his calloused hands. Henry soaked every second in and touched every inch of skin. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving without knowing every beat of Hans’ heart and all the traces of trauma life had carved onto his skin.
Hans, a spoiled nobleman destined to lead, completely subdued beneath a blacksmith, someone inferior in title. Yet, his body caved so willingly, waiting for the next order. His toned, yet lithe legs parted with ease, as if their sole purpose was to create space for Henry’s bare, muscled body. Eager. Hungry. Desperate.
Despite the lack of talking, the quickness with which Hans melted and sculpted to Henry’s liking told a story. Hans had been yearning for a long time, longing for Henry’s touch. So much so that he surrendered the power that gave him the upper hand. The power of a nobleman.
Henry slid his tongue into Hans’ mouth while simultaneously slicking his fingers with oil. Then, he pulled back and admired him who lay panting and whining. He surprised himself when all he thought was how lovely Hans bloomed beneath him like a flower.
Strange. To think a man beautiful. Beauty was for women, soft and calm as spring. Men were rougher around the edges; even the most handsome, like Black Bartosh, could never be beautiful. And yet, there lay Hans, whose blond hair gleamed like golden hay in the summer fields. His beauty rivaled that of the bath-wenches and ladies of the noble court. His chest, flushed and rapidly rising under the pads of his fingers; he quivered beneath him, smooth and tight with muscles. Christ’s wounds. Hans looked beautiful.
His skin, rough and soft alike, smelled of soap. Even amidst a battle, it tasted sweet. Perhaps that’s how noble skins were— silky and pristine, unharmed by grime and dirt. But Hans had become tainted by Henry now, whose fingers reflected his life as a blacksmith’s boy; the life Hans had often teased him about.
If that young Lord Capon could see where life had brought him— on his back with his legs spread under Henry’s careful mercies— he’d scream in disbelief. Not that it mattered. It’s where Hans belonged. Beautiful and impatient with that bratty mouth of his, reduced to shaky breaths and moans.
The first finger slid in without resistance. Hans tensed at the intrusion. It didn’t hurt; it felt funny. As though something was not quite right, which definitely couldn’t be true. Everything was absolutely perfect.
“How is it?” Henry asked, not daring to move a muscle for fear of hurting him.
“It’s fine. Just… just be quiet.”
Henry swallowed his laughter. He enjoyed teasing and embarrassing Hans. His resolve collapsed so quickly, but Hans struggled with admitting it. It thoroughly entertained Henry.
Without uttering another word, Henry pulled his finger out before promptly pushing in again, and then again. He repeated the motions until Hans had grown accustomed to the feeling and relaxed. Only for the progress to start anew when Henry added another. Hans’ muscles stiffened again, the sight arousing Henry further. How could a person be this handsome and this pretty?
A man built from crossbows and swords. Every time Hans clenched, his muscles perked up like mountains. And when he relaxed, those tall mountains eased their way into the ground, becoming malleable and tender. Unlike Henry’s chest, which sprawled a thin coat of dark hair, Hans’ abdomen was smooth. So when Henry licked from his navel to his neck, the trail was smooth. He nipped Hans’ nipples along the way, coaxing soft sighs and choked groans from him. All for his journey to end at Hans’ wet lips.
Henry kissed him breathless, his fingers still making quick work of stretching Hans. Everything felt overwhelmingly good; in a way neither had felt before.
Henry grunted into the kiss. The babbling, squelching, and slippery sounds, the sharp exhales of Hans— an obscene cacophony. No musician could write a song as magical as this.
Hans, ever-yearning, stuttered with his touches. Clearly wanting as his fingertips grazed Henry’s sun-kissed skin, but hesitant to dirty his noble hands with sin. But just as he had when he kissed Henry, his desire took control and squeezed the muscles on his chest. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he sighed, content. Like drinking water with a parched throat.
One touch was all it took for Hans’ other hand to come and squeeze Henry’s shoulder. Then, both hands were everywhere, squeezing, touching, enjoying all that Henry offered. Just doing so made Hans collapse in on himself, his cock twitching and his hole tightening.
“Fuck, Hans—”
Honestly, with how much experience Hans had in bathhouses, Henry didn’t expect him to be timid and modest. Then again, Hans had changed a lot within their time away from Rattay. Near-death experiences did that to a person. As though Hans’ heart, which had forced itself into stone, had melted and become awfully vulnerable and sentimental. Henry had yet grown accustomed to Hans’ emotional spurts. His philosophical tangents. His unwavering devotion to Henry.
When Henry inserted a third digit, sparks electrocuted Hans from within. He jolted and exclaimed— the volume being a little too loud for comfort. Henry secretly thanked the heavens that Hans’ room had no neighbors lest they got caught in their nightly activities, as Hans called it.
“What the fuck was that?” Hans gasped, surprised at himself just as much as Henry was.
“I was hoping you’d tell me.”
“I don’t— ah!”
Henry moved his fingers in that same direction. Hans’ limbs stiffened and a lewd, extended moan escaped him. He clasped a hand over his mouth as Henry teased the area.
“Hm. There’s something here. Perhaps your maidenhood?”
“Shut the fuck— Kurva! Henry, fuck!”
Henry chuckled. “How do you feel, Sir Hans?”
“Like a pathetic wench,” he sputtered.
Henry didn’t need Hans to say anymore. He retrieved his fingers and reached for the oil, this time to rub on his member. Then, he aligned himself with Hans’ entrance, anticipating with excitement how it’d feel to have what his fingers once felt.
It was incomprehensible.
Warmth and tightness beyond imagination embraced Henry’s cock as he sheathed himself inside Hans, who threw his head back with his mouth agape. Their skins flushed, their chests pressed against one another; their hearts pounding, adrenaline like poison on their tongues as they sparred.
Before he continued, Henry asked, “Are you okay, my Lord?”
“Ugh— God, yes, Henry! Who do you think I am? A maiden? I’m the Lord of Rattay, for fuck’s sake! I can handle pain. We’ve even fought battles together, need I remind you?”
“If you say so.”
Henry’s hips withdrew nearly all the way out until only his tip remained. Then, he rammed his cock in, eliciting beautiful whines from Hans, which he muffled with the back of his hand.
They fell into a comfortable rhythm. Sparks flew in the air with every thrust, crisp and precise. Hans whimpered, thrashed, and groaned. His grip on Henry’s shoulders, tight enough to leave bruises that Henry would surely feel beneath his armor.
“You’re as irresistible as ever, Hans,” Henry breathed against his lips. “This is the best I’ve ever felt.”
Hans struggled to kiss back, unable to stop his mouth from remaining shut. He never knew such euphoria was possible. He could hardly contain himself. His eyes rolled to the back of his head; his scalp tingled. Not a single part of his self was left abandoned.
In all their lives, they’d slept with many wenches. Sex, a silly game to pass the time. It’d never brimmed with passion so palpable that Hans slapped his hand over his mouth to keep from shouting as his cock spurted cum over their abdomen. His taut muscles spasmed for minutes without end; his entrance pulsed around Henry’s cock as his four limbs wrapped around his figure. Yet Henry didn’t stop or slow down regardless of the mess Hans had become. He continued the relentless pace that birthed an addictive ecstasy within him.
Tears fell from Hans’ eyes— probably the first time Henry ever saw tears cascading from his eyes, and he loved it. He kissed Hans’ tear-stained cheeks as he cried from over-stimulation. When Hans sobbed beneath him, with his lip jutted out in a pout, Henry crashed their lips together so he wouldn’t see it. Because if he continued looking at his dilated eyes struggling to stay open, and his pink lips trembling, Henry would suffocate him until his lungs burned.
“So… so bloody good,” Hans rasped. “Do you feel good too, Henry?”
“Fucking incredible,” he growled.
If their love-making didn’t condemn them to hell, the way Henry worshiped Hans would. The way he fucked into him was carnal, yet holy. His veins pulsed with animalistic hunger, throbbing beneath his skin. He hoisted Hans by the backside, lifting him until his ass rested on Henry’s thighs instead of the bed, just to slam in deeper.
And Hans took it. He sucked him in eagerly every time. His vocal responses sang like a choir, echoing salvation into Henry’s soul. A blessing in life that surely wouldn’t come cheap. The price to pay for love would be hefty, but Henry promised he’d pay it.
If others knew how Hans bared his ass, like a desperate animal in heat, he’d bury himself in shame. Henry briefly saw the humiliation on Hans’ face when he flipped him over and took him like a bathhouse wench. But Hans didn’t fight against it. Instead, he arched his spine and pushed back, meeting Henry’s thrusts as he buried his face in the sweat-stained pillow while gripping the wrinkled blanket. His voice then became muffled, so he refrained from holding back and moaned a little louder. Had they been anywhere else, Henry would’ve spanked Hans’ ass, right where his scar lay, just to anger and humiliate him a little more. If not for pleasure, then for vindication. After all, Hans still hadn’t paid him back for all the times Henry’s risked his neck to save him, and Henry just thought of a great way he could repay that debt.
Next time, Henry thought, there will be a next time. He’ll take Hans somewhere more private, where people’s eyes and God’s judgment couldn’t reach them. Where they could express their devotion to each other without shame. Where their titles became meaningless and Henry could make Hans scream and cry and beg, like they’d been wanting for months.
Henry came inside Hans with a loud grunt. The intensity of which nearly sent him toppling onto Hans’ body. He barely caught himself by placing a hand on the wall. His ragged breathing tickled the back of Hans’ neck, whose body had gotten so sensitive, the mere sensation of wind made him shudder and his softened cock pulse back to life. Alas, they’d spent all their energy on making love. Even if they had the strength to continue, Henry’s time had slipped right by them, and it was nearly time to go.
Neither of them brought it up.
Instead, Henry grabbed whatever cloth he could get a hold of and wiped Hans’ spent from their chests. Then, in the piercing silence, they embraced. Henry ran his fingers through Hans’ hair, slowly lulling him to sleep. The road to rest wasn’t easy for Hans, not anymore. His body jerked and shivered, his eyebrows furrowed, and he frowned. But when Henry hugged him tighter, Hans’ heavy breathing evened out and his body went limp.
Henry felt both relieved and scared. He feared that he’d never get the chance to do it again. That the next time Hans felt scared, he’d be alone.
No, Henry wouldn’t allow it. He must return to Hans. He promised to stand by him no matter what. And Henry was true to his word.
“I’ll see you soon,” he whispered before pressing a kiss on Hans’ forehead.
Like a shadow, Henry slipped out of bed and dressed himself. His footsteps were just as heavy, if not heavier, than when he had come in.
The memories of what had just transpired between them came in flashes with every step he took toward his probable death. The Moon gleamed in the sky, illuminating the vast fields that stretched for miles beyond the horizon. Henry recalled the many struggles and tribulations he faced with Hans by his side. The frustrations and the joys. How the only thing that mattered to him after Skalitz was keeping Hans safe and happy. It faded into the sight of Hans’ face contorting in pleasure.
Henry could still feel Hans’ silken skin beneath his fingertips. In his ears, he could hear his breath. And in his mouth, he could faintly taste Hans’ salty tears and sweat. They were his reason to keep going.
As the footsteps of Samuel and Father Godwin approached Henry, he forced the visions of Hans away. The feeling of dread hovered, and for the first time, it sank in that Henry really might not come back.
“Shall we?” Samuel asked.
Henry noted the fire simmering underneath Samuel’s demeanor. He’d have to keep a tight rein on Samuel’s temper before he got them into trouble. Henry wasn’t the same as before— he had someone to lose again, and he couldn’t act recklessly anymore.
“Let’s go.”
Samuel scaled down the wall first. Only after Henry couldn’t see any trace of him did he follow. As he made his way down, he stumbled. His muddled mind became clear in an instant. If he wanted to return, he had to focus, even though he wasn’t ready to let go. It had transpired in a flash. He wanted to cherish the memory a little longer. He didn’t get the chance to enjoy the night’s blossoming. It was unfair that the war stole peace from him. That Hans’ memory faded with every step and he couldn’t chase it.
The war had given him no other way out. It’d taken everything from him. His tomorrows weren’t promised; he had to rip them from the enemy instead. He had to push his body to the limits for the sake of glory, as if destined to fight until the bloody end. Over and over, a wicked cycle. Maybe this time, for the last time.
Henry’s brain switched to survival mode, and Hans’ touch vanished. Without him, the wind felt cold. But the fire in his heart hadn’t extinguished. It became the fuel that kept him going. If he succeeded and lived through the horrors of the night, Hans’ body would keep him warm instead. They’d travel the world, as they had planned since they became friends, and soar through the open skies.
And if he failed, and he died before the morning light, then Henry hoped he’d see Hans on the other side.