Chapter Text
There is an arrow lodged deep into the buck’s neck. Blood, thick as vines, oozes from the wound, marring the dark fur a fiery crimson. Behind it, hounds trail the scent, eager to bring the prize to their master. The hunter stares at the buck, hand raised and arrow nocked in the bow, ready to let it loose and bring the hunt to an end. Once the buck is reduced to lofty meat, the hunter will bring it to the lord, who receives it with a haughty wave as if it were his right.
Henry stares at the painting, a feeling he can’t name churning in the pits of his gut. He has been awake for a while now. The summer’s heat wafts through the open window, wrapping the room in a familiar warmth that somehow feels newly discovered. The bed beneath his arse is soft, the softest he has ever experienced, his mind screaming at him that he’s an intruder, even though he has been granted passage. His bare feet press against the wood, his arms bent backward, relearning the weight they once carried after days when even sitting had been a struggle.
His eyes drift once more to the end—or is it the start?—of the painting, where the servant kneels in oath beneath the lord.
Henry wonders if, by staring long enough, he might glean some insight into Hans Capon’s endlessly baffling demeanor. Did Hans grow up while watching the same mural just as intently as he is doing now? Or, more in his fashion, had he demanded it be painted when he was just a lad with his head full of noble pride, while Henry had been throwing rocks at a pond?
He knows now that Hans falls asleep looking towards the ceiling, while Henry's body decides which way to lie without previous thought. Does Hans see himself as the hunter or as the lord? Would he prefer to have his vassal kneeling in front of him, or be the instrument which brings his foes to their death?
And which one is Henry, truly?
He groans, feeling the start of a headache at the back of his skull. He shakes his head, willing the thoughts away. Maybe he has been cooped up too long, and he needs to go for some fresh air to clear whatever is rattling inside his brain.
Maybe that’s why Hans doesn’t enjoy being in his room.
The stray thought makes Henry groan again.
He has a mind to stand up when he hears a knock, polite but decisive enough for it not to be ignored.
“It’s open,” he says, his tongue catching on his words, which come out raspy. He clears his throat and straightens up as the door opens.
Marie, one of the maids working at Pirkstein castle, comes in with a tray expertly balanced on one of her arms. Henry tries not to stare at the food—fresh bread, cheese, slices of apple, and what seems to be honey sprinkled on them—and instead greets Marie with a smile.
He watches her scan the room with the nervous alertness of a hare sensing a knife, until her eyes settle on him with a newfound ease.
“God be with you, Henry. How are you feeling today?” She answers his smile with one of her own.
“Ah, I could be better, but I’m feeling almost as good as new,” Henry says while rolling his shoulders back and hearing a satisfying pop.
It earns him a chuckle from Marie, who lays down the tray on the table pushed against the wall in front of Henry.
“Only you would get poisoned and spring back up like nothing, eh?”
Henry shrugs sheepishly. Being honest, some of the details still elude him, and he wonders if that’s for the best.
He remembers winning the Rattay tournament for the first time, the rush of glory coursing through him like golden threads. He had raised his sword in celebration, towards the commoners who had cheered his name with delight, towards his fellow refugees whose eyes gleamed with what Henry wanted to believe was pride, towards the stands where Lord Hanush was downing a tankard of beer as if nothing grand had occurred.
And towards blue eyes as clear as the sky above him, regarding him with a quiet intensity that left Henry’s heart beating in an unfamiliar song.
Hans was not cheering or shouting, Henry recalls vividly. He was standing, smiling at Henry with the force of a storm about to swallow him whole.
Later, he had been pulled by Jaroslav and Janek towards the tavern, where people had sung his name in praise and admiration. It had been drowned in ale and beer, food and grease, but his thoughts had strayed, still, towards hair as golden as straw and a smile as dangerous as it was bewitching.
Even all the wine and ale in the kingdom wouldn’t have been enough for Henry to forget the way Hans had smiled at him the next day, how Henry could see that smile reaching towards his eyes, despite how his lips were barely curved upwards. Perhaps there had been something in the ale, because Henry recalls his breath coming in short.
Hans had presented him with golden spurs, cradled in soft red silk, their craftsmanship unlike anything Henry had seen before.
Hans had said he had the spurs made just for Henry, no more than a hero like him deserved, a casual remark thrown from his mouth as if they were speaking about something as mundane as the weather. As if he hadn’t just presented Henry with something he would treasure for the rest of his life.
Then Hans had said something about a soul-sucking council and had left Henry alone, the warmth of his presence lingering in the space between them. Moments later, it was replaced with the sharp sting of a blade, pushing into him a vile poison fit for a cowardly bastard like Black Peter. When the blackguard was dead and done in the dirt, Henry didn’t get the satisfaction of victory before his mind followed darkness akin to a malevolent rest.
Next thing he remembers, he had awoken inside of Hans’ room, on his spare bed, the sawbones and apothecary asking questions that his addled mind hadn’t been able to comprehend.
Maybe some memories are best left unvisited.
“It has been close to a week since they brought you here at Lord’s Capon behest,” Marie continues when Henry fails to speak, absorbed in the memories as he is. She lowers her voice next. “I bet it hasn’t been easy being cooped up with his lordship all this time.”
Henry laughs on instinct more than desire. “He’s not that bad, I assure you.”
She casts Henry a sidelong glance while fidgeting with the edge of her dress. “He has not a drop of patience in that body of his, Sir Henry.” She doesn’t give him a chance to correct her, continuing instead with the back of one hand raised lightly to her mouth, “Just this morning, there was a commotion in the upper castle. Sir Hanush and Lord Capon were shouting at each other, and I’ve heard the young lord has been in a foul mood since then.”
That certainly catches Henry's attention. It doesn’t take a scholar to notice that the shouting matches between uncle and nephew have become more common as of late, and no matter how he had asked, Hans had always brushed off his questions.
“You should watch out for—”
The door opens without warning, catching both of them by surprise.
It can’t take more than a modicum of time for Hans to catch his eyes, but it’ enough for Henry to notice the frown on Hans’ face that deepens as he takes in the room. His shoulders are taut as a bowstring, ready to release at any given time.
Marie straightens up in front of Henry, and it draws Hans' attention.
“My lord—”, she starts.
Hans raises a hand. “Leave us be, woman. Your presence is not required at the time.”
Marie gives a quick bow of her head before scurrying out of the room, the sound of the door closing behind her loud in the silence that Hans’ words leave in their wake. Hans turns to face Henry, who feels irritation flood him like an old wound, stagnant in its everlasting presence.
“Why do you have to be such an arse, Hans?”
He casts Henry a glance before going for the pitcher of wine. It’s empty, Henry knows, because they had drunk the last drop just the night before. Hans groans in frustration, and for a moment, Henry feels as if the universe is on his side, for once.
“What are you on about this time, Henry? And watch your tongue, that’s no way to speak to your lord, especially in his chambers.” Henry should, he knows this, but the threat feels as empty as it did last week, and the one before, and the one before that. Hans’ tone is devoid of any real admonishment or animosity towards Henry’s attitude, his annoyance born from another source. Henry wonders when most of Hans’ warnings started to lack their bite.
And when had Henry learnt to differentiate Hans’ intentions so keenly?
“She has a name, sir.” He rolls the honorific on his tongue with the same esteem he has heard Hans’ regard the castellan, or, as Hans likes to delicately put it, “that yokel who couldn’t tell a goblet from a chamber pot if his life depended on it.” He hears Hans snicker by the table, seemingly resigning himself to drinking water. “She’s called—”
“Marie. I know this.”
Henry feels his mouth hang open for a second, surprise threading through him. Hans drinks from the cup, his throat bobbing with each gulp.
“If you know her name, why not use it?” Henry lets the astonishment ebb away, instead holding onto his irritation.
Hans snorts, waving a dismissive hand. “Oh, spare me your indignant pride. You really need to learn the ways of nobility—of the world, even. Stop sounding like a stableboy begging for scraps of courtesy and stand up straight. You’re slouching like a sack of turnips, and it offends my eyes.”
Henry slumps his back against the wall as far as he can, doing his best impression of a sack of flour. Hans looks intently at him, a lopsided smirk forming on his face with every passing second. Henry holds his stare, embers coiling deep within him.
“You irreverent peasant.”
Henry feels a heat coming from Hans’ words, but it’s difficult to place.
“You being this insolent this early surely means you still haven’t eaten, so get to it,” Hans commands while pointing to the food carefully placed on the table he’s leaning against.
“M’ not hungry,” Henry mumbles, not caring how childish it sounds. Hans quirks up an eyebrow, not believing him for a second.
“Come off it now. I can hear your stomach grumbling all the way from Rattay’s upper castle.”
Henry shrugs. “Lost my appetite.”
They stare at each other for a while, Henry doing his best to school his face into an expression of easy disinterest. That’s the reason he sees the exact moment when Hans’ smile turns predatory, a glint on the edge of his eyes accompanying it.
“Then you won’t mind if I help myself to the food.”
It takes monumental effort for Henry not to react to the threat, but he savors the outcome: Hans stares at him, gauging and prodding, his smile dropping just a tad, almost imperceptible if Henry hadn’t been looking so intently at it.
“Help yourself, Sir Hans. This is your food before it is mine,” he lies.
Slowly, yet with a grace that irritates Henry enough to demand his attention, Hans shifts away from the edge of the table and lifts a slice of apple, thick honey clinging to his fingertips. He meets Henry’s gaze, and Henry meets his in turn without a word.
Then, Hans moves his fingers towards his slightly parted lips, and Henry can’t help but follow the movement with his eyes.
There’s a loud grumble that shatters the silence with intent, reverberating between the four walls of Hans’ chambers. Hans’ fingers still as his eyes slightly widen in surprise. The grumble returns, louder this time, and Henry’s face flushes with embarrassment as it becomes clear it’s coming from his treacherous stomach.
A pause rises between them, before laughter erupts in fits from both of their mouths.
“God’s wounds, Hal, you’re truly an animal.” Hans breathes the words between fits of laughter, and Henry chases the sound like the hounds in the murals. “Just stop being a stubborn ox and eat already.” Hans places the apple slice back on the plate.
Henry salvages what shred of dignity he has left by waiting long enough before he stands up and goes to the food.
He starts by eating the apple.
It’s sweet and tart on his tongue, and he fights the need to groan around his fingers. Little lordlings do have it good, with fresh fruit and bread served to them every day. He is about to say as much to Hans, but when Henry looks up, the words get lodged in his throat.
Hans is licking clean the honey that lingers on his fingers, the pads of them disappearing between Hans’ lips until they emerge again devoid of any sweet drop.
“What is it?” Hans’ voice reaches Henry. The sun beats down against Henry’s back in his new position, and that must be it—that must be what sends the heat creeping up his spine, prickling along his neck and stirring every hair on end. He fixes on the reasoning stubbornly, as if naming it might make it true.
Henry clears his throat. “Aren’t you eating, Hans?”
Hans regards him for a second, something almost pensive in his expression, but before any real nervousness can take hold in Henry, he speaks.
“I already ate in the upper castle.”
Henry can hardly believe how infuriating Hans Capon can be. It’s worse still when he realizes he’s walked straight into the man’s honeyed trap—because, of course, Hans never had any intention of touching his breakfast at all.
“Besides, I’m a gracious lord,” Hans says, all false magnanimity, “I wouldn’t dream of coming between you and your food, Hal.”
Henry would like to take his words back, because in the end, it’s so much more irritating to realize there’s no actual irritation at all. What lingers instead is something far more inconvenient: the faint curl of amusement, the reluctant warmth of it, as if Hans has somehow turned the whole thing into a jest meant just for them.
What else is he to do, then, but eat what’s been set before him?
While Henry eats, Hans starts rummaging through the stack of books he keeps neatly organized in a bookshelf propped against one corner of his room. He has a contemplative look on his face, but his shoulders droop down with ease, and the tension that he had when he first came into the room is long gone.
Then, without a word, Hans slides into the chair closest to Henry. His eyes stay fixed on the book he pulled out, deliberately avoiding Henry’s gaze. It’s strange—and yet not. Henry has learned that Hans moves through the space around him as if it has always been his, as if claiming it is his right.
Henry has never questioned it.
He doesn’t start now.
Instead, he finishes his meal in silence, doing his best to keep his eyes from wandering.
If he fails, no one has to know.
When he’s licking the last traces of the cheese from his fingers and the last drop of water from his cup disappears between his lips, Hans turns to look at him at last. Somehow, it feels as if they’re seeing each other for the first time today, with the way Hans throws him a sly smile.
Marie had told him Hans had been in a foul mood, but there’s no indication of it now.
Henry studies him, if only for a moment longer than is proper. There is no tension in Hans’ brow, no sharpness in the line of his mouth—none of that brittle impatience Henry has come to recognize from a distance. If anything, he looks… at ease. Amused, even, as though some private joke lingers just behind his eyes.
It makes Henry pause.
He tries to recall the last time he saw Hans in such a temper, how it had felt like standing too near a storm with charged air, a sense that something might break if one spoke at the wrong moment. And yet now, sitting across from him with crumbs between them and morning light slipping quietly through the room, there is nothing of that tempest left. Not even its echo.
Had Marie been mistaken? Or had whatever dark mood plagued him simply… passed? With how fickle Hans’ emotions are, that might well be.
“Is something amusing?” Henry asks at last, unable to quite keep the question to himself.
“Only that you look very serious for a man who has just finished his breakfast,” Hans says.
Henry exhales faintly through his nose. “And you look remarkably content for a man I was told to avoid this morning.”
At that, Hans scoffs, and it's like seeing through a lake just as a stone drops into it and the water ripples, showing what was there in a different light. Hans doesn’t comment on it, so Henry prods. “Did you quarrel with Sir Hanush again?”
“Bah, is that what the peasants are saying? I assure you, Henry, it’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“Hans—”
He is waved off. “Leave it be. We have urgent matters to discuss, not idle gossip like midwives with nothing better to do.”
Henry cannot help the faint crease that forms between his brows.
“I have decided,” Hans continues, “that you are in need of tuition.”
“Tuition,” Henry repeats, one of his eyebrows going up.
“In Latin,” Hans clarifies, as though that explains everything. Hans looks at him expectantly, and for a moment, Henry wonders if the lord has gone mad and he just expects Henry to read that baffling mind of his.
“Hans, what are you on about? Why the hell would you teach me Latin?” Henry finally asks when it’s clear Hans won’t bother to explain any of his intentions..
Hans sighs, as if it brings him great pain to explain the most basic of inquiries, and Henry gets the urge to kick him in the shin. “And how do you expect to pass off as a monk if you can’t even read the most basic of Latin?” Hans closes the book that had been hanging open in one of his hands. “Not that any of you cared to inform me of that ridiculous plan.” The last words come with an edge to them.
Henry scratches the back of his head absentmindedly. “Didn’t get the chance to talk about it with all that happened recently, I guess,” Henry offers.
“More reason to take matters into my own hands, with the rampant incompetence about.” For once, Henry doesn’t care about the haughtiness coming from Hans’ tone, if only because it means the aggravated slight of not telling Hans everything is brushed aside.
“I assure you it will be fine, Hans. There’s no need to worry about me,” Henry protests. Hans looks at him again, his nose upturned.
“And who says I’m doing this for you? If you get caught, the embarrassment will fall to me, since you’re such a sorry excuse of a squire. I can’t have you tarnishing my good name, so let’s get to it.”
Maybe Henry doesn’t know how to read Latin, but he knows how to read the fake indifference from his lord.
At last, he sighs and relents, because there’s no use fighting against Hans when he gets an idea really ingrained in that nest of hairs he calls for a head. “When do we start?”
Hans smiles, triumphant and without an ounce of shame in his face, and says, “Right now, of course! No time like the present.”
That’s how Henry finds himself hunched over the book Hans had plucked from its resting place, not making any sense of the words in front of him. Is it his imagination, or do the words look totally different from what he has learnt until now?
Hans is close.
Close enough that their thighs are almost brushing, but the distance between them feels as if it’s a chasm, with how it pulls Henry’s attention away from the book. Hans rests one of his arms, bent at the elbow, just down from the book, and the warmth from his skin wafts into Henry’s own, just a hair’s breadth away. It should feel normal, Henry should feel accustomed to it by now, but still, the weight of it pulls down the pit of his own self.
Hans taps the page with one finger. “Start there. Go on.”
Henry squints. The letters might as well be ants marching in neat little rows, determined to mock him. “A-Amos… dem… demine?” Henry mutters, and Hans snorts beside him.
“Anno Domini,” he corrects. “It means in the year of the Lord, and I bet you will be using that quite a lot.”
Henry drags a hand over his face. “Why do the letters look so different?”
Hans hums and considers him for a moment, tapping one long finger against his equally long chin. “You’re right. Leave it to old farts to make everything more complicated for the sake of tradition.” Hans doesn’t wait for an answer before standing up and starting to rummage through his chest. Henry watches him, and before long, Hans lets out a sound of victory and comes back with a parchment, old if Henry goes from the stains scattered around the edges.
When Hans sits down, their legs brush, and without thinking, Henry scurries back, making more room. Hans doesn’t mention it.
“I copied this parchment ages ago to make more sense of the way sometimes the monks write the letters down. May it serve you well now.”
It makes things easier, Henry admits, half an hour later.
It still doesn’t make up for the fact that he can’t understand fucking anything, even when the letters are clearer.
Henry lets out a groan, frustration crawling up inside him like needles under his skin. “I can’t make bloody sense out of any of this.”
Hans huffs a quiet laugh—too quiet to be mocking, which only makes it worse. “We’ve barely begun, Hal. You can’t expect to read Latin in just an afternoon.” Henry feels his mouth twist in a grimace, his lips downturned and his cheeks slightly puffed with annoyance.
“…Then what’s the point?” Henry snaps, sharper than he means to, though he doesn’t bother softening it after. “If I’m just going to sit here like a fool, staring at scratches on a page.”
Hans doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches just enough to make Henry shift, restless, before—
“The point,” Hans says at last, “is that you won’t always be a fool at it.”
Henry scoffs, turning his head just enough to glare at him. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“Yes, well,” Hans murmurs, reaching over to nudge the page again, “you play the part very convincingly.”
Henry exhales hard, somewhere between a sigh and a huff, and drops his gaze back to the text. The same cursed words stare back at him, unchanged, unimpressed by his temper. He doesn’t know what’s gotten him so worked up. He knows what Hans says to be the truth, but some part of him still refuses the logic of it all.
He already knows how to read, so it should stand to reason that this should be easier. Instead, he’s making a fool of himself in front of Hans, who likes to belittle his peasant head at every opportunity he gets.
This time, instead, Hans just shifts a little closer, shoulder brushing Henry’s arm as he leans in and points again. “Pater noster,” he says, slow and clear. “Recognize that one?”
Henry stares. The words don’t become any less foreign just because Hans says them nicely. “No.”
A pause.
“Truly?” Hans asks, one brow lifting.
Henry exhales hard through his nose. “Should I? Sounds like someone sneezed halfway through.”
That earns him a proper laugh, low and unrestrained this time. Henry feels it more than he hears it, the vibration where their shoulders meet, and somehow a trace of his irritation lifts with it.
“It’s a prayer, you dolt,” Hans says, though there’s no bite in it. “Our Father. You’ve heard it in church often enough.”
Henry lets out a groan, loud and unashamed, dropping his forehead into his palm. “It’s nonsense. No wonder monks are so devoid of any joy, if they have to suffer this madness every day.”
Hans doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turns a page with deliberate care, the parchment whispering under his fingers. “When I was a boy,” he says after a moment, “my tutor would have rapped my knuckles for half of what you’ve said in the last minute.”
Henry snorts into his hand. “Shame he’s not here, then. Might’ve knocked some sense into me.”
Hans lets out a chuckle, and Henry can’t help but follow the sound. “Though mostly he knocked patience out of himself. Old bastard had none to spare.” There’s a faint smirk in his voice. “You’d have hated him.”
Henry considers him for a moment, and the next words are out of his mouth before he can make sense of them. “You seem to be having fun.”
Hans laughs, because of course he does. “I actually am! You should be grateful, Henry, I’m a better teacher than that old driveller.” Hans stretches, then, his arms straining against his golden pourpoint, which rises slightly above his waist. “But you’re being too obtusus to actually learn anything more today, so we’ll stop for the day. Care for a game of Farkle?”
Hans never waits for an answer. Henry gives one when he sighs and closes the book.
Henry's body gradually heals while his mind scrambles.
He would like to say it is only because of the Latin.
It is not.
Their lessons continue in Hans’ room—their shared room?— because Hans, for some Godforsaken reason, seems adamant enough that Henry needs to be able to recite at least a full prayer in Latin without stumbling with the words.
They’re hunched over a book of psalms, and Hans is close enough that every time he shifts their legs brush against each other. It doesn’t mean anything, but still, a feeling akin to thunder follows the movement, igniting Henry’s skin with fire. He berates himself for it, trying to focus instead on the letters in front of him, and not on the finger that traces the paper.
On how it would feel if it traced his skin instead.
“Et ut inhabitem in domo Domini,” he hears Hans say, and Henry repeats, his voice hoarse with effort.
Hans makes no comment about it, surely because he knows Henry is hopeless with Latin and his efforts are wasted on him. “Good, what comes next?”
So much for that.
Henry tries to remember. The words form in his mouth, but then Hans comes even closer, expectation reflecting on the blue of his eyes. “I-In longitudinem…?”
He trails off and takes note that Hans smells like rosemary and ash wood. It does not help.
“Dierum,” Hans finishes for him, a spark of humor trailing his words.
That’s the crux of it, at the end—that Hans is so patient with him, uncharacteristically so. Henry knows they've been making slow progress. He has been difficult—if not outright rude sometimes—but Hans shrugs it off, or just gives it back as good as he gets it, but there’s never any real malice behind his words, nor reprimand.
Instead, Hans laughs and shoves Henry with the press of his shoulder, or slaps the front of his thigh with his strong hands, or pinches his elbow with enough force to make Henry jump in his seat.
Sometimes, their hands rest atop the table, so close Henry can feel the heat radiating between them. But still, the distance remains.
“What are you laughing about?” Henry grumbles.
“I reckon it’s just refreshing.”
Henry glares at him. “What?”
“The great Henry of Skalitz, slayer of Cumans, charmer of miller’s girls and champion of the Rattay tournament, bested by words on a book,” Hans answers, self-satisfaction oozing from his smirk while he props his chin on the heel of his hand, looking at Henry sideways.
“Sod off, Hans.”
The arsehole’s smile only widens. “And here I thought that everything came easy to you, blacksmith’s boy.”
There’s a challenge beneath the words. “I’m better with my hands.”
A shimmer in Hans’ eyes appears, fleeting, and Henry follows it, frugal as it may be. “Perhaps I expected too much of that peasant brain of yours.”
Henry feels a grin of his own forming on his face. “Can’t be that hard if you managed to do it.”
Hans matches it with his own. “Then show me.”
Henry's heart leaps to his throat. “W-What?”
Hans licks his lips, and Henry cannot help but follow the movement, helpless as a moth to flame.
“If it’s so easy that even I can do it,” Hans says, “then show me. Do it yourself.”
His breath gets caught in some part of his brain, and his blood must be pooling around his feet, and there’s a flame burning inside of him that wasn’t there moments ago. Through it all, Hans only lifts his brows and gestures toward the book with a tilt of his head.
Henry hates it.
He hates how the fire consumes him whole, licking up his spine, settling under his skin, and yet leaves Hans untouched, untroubled, as though he stands beyond its reach.
Still, that same fire feeds the part of Henry that refuses to lose to him.
So that afternoon, he recites an entire psalm without a single mistake.
The look on Hans’ face after that is one Henry has never seen before.
The side of the fire that spurred him on to get his Latin on a better track flickers out, consumed by the blazing inferno that Hans commands on him.
Because every single time Henry makes progress, his resolve gets shattered as easily as a branch crunches under the weight of a horse. When Henry gets a phrase just right, there's a strong hand squeezing his knee, the touch searing into his bones. When Henry recites a prayer in Latin as easily as he would talk about brandishing a sword, Hans pats his back and says that he will make a monk out of Henry yet.
The hand lingers on his lower back, and Henry forgets his own name.
Worst of all, Henry craves it. Craves the praise as much as he craves the wandering touches, and it fills him with a swirling sensation not unlike shame, for seeing—wishing—for ghosts where there are none.
“Suscipe me, Domine, secundum eloquium..."
“Heaven's above, Hal, you're not completely hopeless after all!”
It's innocuous, the way Hans says the words, with no concern for the consequences they may beckon. Henry doesn't answer. How could he, when Hans decides to cup the back of his neck with his entire hand? When, not content with that, Hans' thumb moves over the skin, almost imperceptibly? Except for Henry, who feels any acute shift in the depths of his very self. Henry forgets how to speak.
“Henry, are you well?” The words catch him by surprise. In his addled state, Henry feels panic bubbling inside him, ready to spill out into the open. “Is a fever coming into you? You're red all over,” Hans continues. “I hoped you were out of danger now. I will fetch the sawbones, do not move.”
Hans, as always, doesn't wait for an answer and stands up, while Henry's mind reels with the effort of making sense of anything that is happening. The next thing he knows, Hans is staring back at him, his eyes widened with clear surprise. It takes twice a second for his brain to realize what he's doing.
He's clutching Hans' wrist with his hand, a strong grip around the exposed skin. For a while, they stay like that—Hans standing, looking down at Henry with a befuddled expression, while Henry doesn't weaken his hold, sure that his face mirrors Henry's own.
At last, he speaks. “‘M fine, Sir Hans. Just the heat of the day, I guess.” Hans’ face shifts, his eyebrows pinching together, and Henry slowly lets go of him. “We should continue this,” Henry adds while turning his face back to the book that’s resting on the table. He feels, rather than hears, Hans making his way down to the chair beside Henry without saying a word.
That afternoon, they don’t make much progress.
The next day, the sawbones returns to their room, and Henry throws Hans a dirty look. Hans, the bastard, just smiles and denies any involvement, saying that Boleslav came to check up on Henry of his own God-granted will.
The man prods at him, asks some questions, and determines him to be fit. Boleslav says there mustn’t be any lasting damage from the poison and that Henry is lucky to have a strong constitution, as he believes nary a man would have survived what he went through. While the sawbones gathers his belongings, Henry feels the weight of Hans’ gaze on his back.
“Henry,” Hans says as soon as the door closes behind Boleslav. “Accompany me for a walk.”
“A walk?”
“Yes, a walk. I bet you could use it, since you’re finally allowed to. Or would you prefer to stay caged here?”
Henry lets out a sound between a breath and a laugh. “A walk does sound nice, Hans.”
The sun warms his skin, its rays beaming down directly on him, lifting his spirits instantly. They walk side by side from Pirkstein courtyard toward the market, where Henry is stopped again and again, each person eager to congratulate him on his victory or ask how he is faring. He responds to all, but senses Hans growing impatient the longer they linger, so he makes a point of keeping most greetings brief and polite.
Still, when they’re stopped by the apothecary, Hans doesn’t voice his complaints, and Henry finds it… strange, to say the least. It’s made worse when he realizes that Hans is following his pace and not the other way around, as usual. It makes something coil inside of Henry.
Hans fills the silence, grumbling about the castellan and his wife, or how Hanush tried to drag him into a hearing where he knows full well his opinion would be dismissed. That is refreshing in his familiarity, and Henry finds himself smiling openly as Hans keeps on his bleating.
It’s only when they’re near the bridge towards Rattay’s upper castle that Henry realizes how close they have drifted into each other. It’s innocuous at first, maybe, because their walk has taken on a slow pace, a silent agreement to not push Henry more than necessary. They’re closer than they need to be, but Hans doesn’t say anything, so neither does Henry.
Sometimes, when Henry turns to give back a greeting in the form of a shout, their shoulders skim against each other. Henry notices the brush of Hans’ sleeve against his own again as they move past the blacksmith. It’s a fleeting touch, barely there, but it makes his chest tighten just the same. He keeps his eyes on the pebbles scattered on the road, though he feels the warmth lingering where their arms almost meet.
“You should’ve seen Hanush yesterday,” Hans continues, voice low and slightly muffled as if confiding a secret in the wind. “He looked half-asleep and half-pissed at the same time. Honestly, it was a sight.”
Henry chuckles softly, the sound getting caught in his throat when Hans’ shoulder grazes his once more as they turn to avoid a guard. It’s nothing, he tells himself. But still, his heart hammers in a way it hasn’t before, and he finds himself hoping—though he doesn’t allow the thought to settle—that Hans’ arm would linger just a fraction longer.
They pause near a stall of dried herbs. Henry leans slightly forward to inspect a bundle of thyme, and Hans leans in too, so that their elbows press together lightly. The contact is brief, almost accidental, yet Henry feels a spark of warmth shoot up his arm. He glances at Hans and finds him looking back, a perfect smile curving his lips.
Without him truly taking notice of his surroundings, they arrive at the battle arena, where days prior, Henry felt the glory of victory. Its wake feels muted when he feels the back of Hans’ hand brushing his own as they move towards the wood railing.
He feels winded, and he comes to rest his back against the wooden fence, feeling the roughness of it digging into him. It’s a welcome distraction but it doesn’t last, not when Hans decides to take his place beside him, their fingers barely apart where they rest on the railing.
“I should apologize, Henry.”
It comes from nowhere. “What for this time?” Henry teases, trying to keep the trembling out of his voice.
Hans snickers and kicks some dirt in front of his feet. “If I hadn’t lied to Hanush and roped you into the tournament, you wouldn’t have almost died.”
“Bah, don’t worry about that, Hans. I wanted to participate, I would have done it either way.” Hans isn’t looking at him, but Henry sees the slight crease that appears in his forehead. “Besides, you couldn’t have possibly known Black Peter was a right whoreson.”
At that, Hans chuckles, though there’s no real mirth in it. “Aye, that he was. May he rot in hell.”
They stand in silence for a while, shadows shifting in front of them as the sun makes its retreat.
“Come now, Hal. We should head back before you get arrested for not carrying a torch,” Hans announces as he stands straight, waiting for Henry.
“I doubt the guards would dare to scold the future lord for walking around without a torch,” Henry retorts, already following Hans, who looks back at him with an easy smile.
“Oh, I know. But you, dear Henry, wouldn’t get the same treatment.”
Henry misses a step, and he curses beneath his breath. “So what? You would stand there while they arrest me?”
Hans shrugs, slowly and deliberately. “Maybe that will teach you some manners. You’re getting awfully comfortable around here, after all.”
“Prick.”
With Hans, laughter always comes easily, and today isn’t the exception.
The trek back to Pirkstein is uneventful, the villagers more preoccupied with finishing their daily duties than with the two troublemakers making their way through town. Night is setting in, and when they arrive at their destination, Hans goes for his bedside chest. Henry does the same, changing into the light brown tunic he prefers to sleep in. Hans, as always, takes longer to change, so Henry busies himself by lighting the single white candle perched on the table they have used for his lessons, the soft flame flickering in the growing dimness of the room.
“What are you doing? Why did you light the candle?”
Henry turns to Hans, and sure enough, he’s dressed down with a simple but still elegant white linen shirt. The cords at the front aren’t tied, and they reveal the freckles scattered around like stars against the sky of Hans’ chest, expanding until they meet the dawn of his collarbones, before they disappear under the clothes.
“I thought we could get some more reading done.”
“Are you sure, Henry? Wouldn’t you rather do something else?”
Henry sighs as he sits down in one of the chairs by the reading table. “By tomorrow, Sir Radzig will know that the sawbones declared me fit. So…”
“...You’re going to get sent off at a moment's notice,” Hans finishes for him, his voice laced with a sharp edge. Henry nods, trying to feel unbothered about it all. There’s a harshness dancing in Hans’ eyes, blatant with the reflection of the flame’s light. After a while, Hans grunts and sits by Henry’s side. “Let’s get to it, then.”
Hans pulls the book closer, the worn leather creaking softly as he opens it. The candle between them flickers and the light bends across the page, catching on the ink and making the letters seem to shift if Henry stares too long.
“Here,” Hans says, tapping a line with his finger. “Start with this.”
Henry leans in, closer than he needs to, just to see where Hans is pointing. Their shoulders meet, not quite by accident, and stay that way. The warmth of it seeps through the thin fabric of his shirt, grounding and distracting all at once.
Henry tries. He does. His eyes move across the words, but they don’t quite settle. The letters blur, rearrange themselves into something meaningless, because Hans’ hand is still there on the page, his knuckles brushing against Henry’s as he guides him along.
“Good, keep going,” Hans murmurs, and shifts even closer.
His breath ghosts over Henry’s cheek as he leans in to see the text better, one hand braced on the table, the other tracing the line again. Henry stills, his voice faltering mid-word.
“Dominus…” he starts, but it comes out softer than intended. He trails off, and for some reason, the same patience that Hans had displayed seems to evade him now.
Hans exhales, not quite a sigh. “Listen.”
And then he begins.
“Dominus illuminatio mea et salus mea, quem timebo…”
The Latin flows from him easily, each word measured with ease. It’s different from how Hans usually speaks. There’s a steadiness to it, something almost reverent, though Henry doubts Hans would ever call it that.
Henry doesn’t look at the page.
He looks at Hans.
The candlelight flickers, catching along the line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, the slight furrow between his brows as he concentrates. It sharpens him, makes every angle more pronounced, every movement of his lips as he shapes the words impossible to ignore.
“Dominus protector vitae meae…”
Their thighs press together as Hans shifts in his seat, closer still without seeming to notice. Or perhaps he does, Henry can’t tell. He only knows that the contact sends a slow, steady warmth up his side, settling somewhere beneath his ribs and his heart.
Hans’ voice lowers on the last words, almost thoughtful, and the room feels smaller for it. Just the two of them, the quiet crackle of the wick, and the soft cadence of a language that seems graceful on Hans’ tongue.
Henry swallows, realizing too late that he’s missed most of it.
Hans turns his head slightly. “Well?”
Henry blinks, dragged back too quickly. “I—”
“Repeat it,” Hans says, sharper, but not quite harsh. Their tights are still touching, and the contact makes Henry swallow.
“Dominus illuminatio mea…”
It’s harder to follow the words in the darkness, so Henry leans in once more, close enough that their shoulders rest together again, and tries to follow the words. When one of his lord’s hands settles against the paper, it comes to rest close enough to graze Henry’s own, heat flaring through him, sudden and searing.
This time, Henry does not pull away.
Exhaustion, however, catches up with him with the force of a drawn blade slipping between the joints of his armor. Has Hans' voice always been this… pleasant? In that moment, as his lord continues to speak, it seems to take on a candid softness, so unlike the eager sharpness Henry has come to know, or at least believes he has.
It’s enough to…
Again, there’s no heinous red scattered around hills, the smell of ash and smoke filling the space. It has been like that for at least a week. Instead, there’s light snoring and the comfort of a sheet draped over his body. There’s darkness around Henry, the candlelight snuffed out.
The snoring continues, and it takes Henry a moment to gather his bearings. He’s in the same bed he’s been using since the poisoning, but he can’t remember walking to it. What does he remember?
Walking back to Pirkstein, insisting on practicing more Latin, Hans’ surprise, the tiredness coiling around his own body, Hans’ voice, Hans…
Hans.
Henry is glad he’s already lying down; the press of embarrassment alone would have been enough to make him collapse. He groans, feeling his face heat up. At least Hans’ snoring continues, granting him a few stolen hours before the inevitable and unrelenting teasing by his friend begins. Oh, because he knows it will come. If the roles had been reversed—if Hans had fallen asleep first and been carried towards the bed instead—Henry is certain he wouldn’t have let him live it down.
How had Hans managed to carry him that short distance without stirring him? Was he truly that exhausted? Henry knows he isn’t a light sleeper, yet to warrant that… He groans again, burying his face in the pillow, ignoring the coil of frustration inside him—the strange, almost disappointing ache at not remembering a single detail of being carried.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”
“Fuck off, Capon.”
Henry swears Hans’ boisterous laugh must be heard all the way to Ledetchko.
That day, at Henry’s suggestion, they move their lessons to the library. Hans hums at first, then promptly agrees, citing that in there they would find more books to speed up Henry’s progress. Not long after breaking their fast and refreshing themselves, they make their way to the library.
This time, when their shoulders and hands brush against each other, Henry has a mind not to pull back.
Again, Hans doesn’t say anything, so neither does he.
It’s warm inside the library, the open windows doing just enough for the heat to not become overbearing. Still, Henry scoots close while his eyes follow Hans’ finger moving upon the book, inciting Henry to read the words left in their wake. Henry follows his lead, and for a moment, he marvels at the realization that he’s able to recite the words with more ease now.
That is, until a shout makes both of them jump in their seats.
“Boy! Where the hell are you now?!”
Lord Hanush’s yells resonate through the silence of the room, and soon enough, he finds both of them.
“Uncle,” Hans grumbles, irritation already in full display.
“So this is where you have been cooped up, instead of attending to your duties?” Lord Hanush’s voice is thick with annoyance too, and Henry watches as Hans shoots his uncle a look that would wither a lesser man. It seems to not have any effect on the bearded lord. “We had council today, and you couldn’t bother that reckless head of yours to at least make an appearance.”
“I was otherwise occupied with pressing matters, Uncle.”
Hanush shakes his head, unamused. “That I can see. I had to ask the guards where on earth you ran off to this time, and I find you holed up with Henry instead of doing what I told you to do!”
Hans’ shoulders get tight with tension, and his posture reminds Henry of a fox deciding whether to fight or flee. “Uncle, there’s no need to talk about that—”
“Henry, lad, you would do well not to take after my nephew here.” Henry straightens, feeling the full weight of Hanush’s hard stare. “For some Godforsaken reason, Hans fancies himself clever enough to decide what’s best for you, instead of Radzig, who I should remind him—once again—is your rightful lord.”
“Uncle, stop—”
Lord Hanush doesn’t, talking over Hans with the ease of a practiced habit. “It wasn't enough that he insisted on moving you to his personal chambers while you healed, the boy was foolish enough to demand that Radzig give you proper rest,” Hanush scoffs at the words, “before continuing your work.”
Henry's mouth hangs open, surprise etched in his face. He throws a look towards Hans, who is red in the face with fury.
Lord Hanush continues, ignoring the both of them now. “As if he has any authority over you, or over our esteemed guest! And then he shouts at me, throwing a fit befitting a spoiled brat and not the future lord of Rattay.”
That must have been what Marie was talking about, but still, it’s hard for Henry to believe.
“Uncle, enough! I will search for you later and discuss the matters regarding the council,” Hans says, voice trembling with something Henry can’t quite place. Lord Hanush must think the same, because he falls silent for once. “Leave us be, please.”
Hanush lets out an annoyed huff. “Don’t be late, boy. I’ll be expecting you.” With that, he leaves.
In his absence, broken silence falls between Henry and Hans, the latter trying his best to avoid Henry’s searching gaze.
“So…” Henry begins, a small smile dancing in his face.
Hans looks at him from the corner of his eye, not quite turning to face him. There’s no mistaking the ruddiness on his cheeks, though.
“You really didn’t want me to tarnish your good name, huh?”
Hans glares at him, and Henry feels fondness crawling up his skin, traveling to the tips of his fingers and begging them to move, to hold Hans close to him and let the inordinate feeling free from its cage. “Drop it.”
Henry, of course, doesn’t. “It’s fine, Sir Hans. I promise I’ll be the best squire in all of Bohemia, so as to not tarnish your honor,” Henry practically sings, the feeling bubbling inside of him.
“I’m warning you, Henry, leave it be.” Hans’ words are more of a grumble than a real warning, and Henry still basks in it—in the knowledge that, one way or another, he matters to Hans.
He feasts on the revelation, and still, it doesn’t prepare him when Hans speaks again. “If you get caught, Henry, your life could be in danger. They could flagellate you, or worse, hang you. I… I don’t want that to happen.”
Hans’ words are offered in a rush, as if it costs him. As if, by letting them be spoken, his fears could be used against him. It makes Henry’s chest coil with a weight unlike any he has felt before.
“Hans, it will be fine. Nothing will happen to me,” Henry offers, trying to make light of it, needing for Hans to understand that he will be careful so he can return here. To…
Hans finally turns to him, his eyes shimmering with what Henry recognizes as apprehension mixed with fear. “Henry, you are a dear friend of mine, even if I don’t always act like it. Promise me you will be careful.”
Henry has suffered the hard caress of sword and mace alike, the sting of arrows and daggers, and still, nothing is akin to the blow he feels at Hans’ words.
“I promise you, Hans.”
At that, Hans smiles. It’s a small thing, barely perceptible on his lips, hidden beneath the red that still scatters across his nose and cheeks. “Good. Then we shall continue. Read this one aloud.”
Hans points, and Henry follows. “Sitivit anima mea ad te, Deus.”
My soul has thirsted for you, O God, the words reads.
And when Hans looks at him, his smile blazing like the sun, Henry understands the meaning behind the prayer.
Only it’s not directed at God.
Heaven preserve him.
He’s in love with Hans.