Cadew’s Reflections

“Running away again, Hollander? Isn’t your girlfriend waiting for you inside?”

“Fuck off, Rozanov. You’re the one trying to fuck with me.”

“You’re telling me you didn’t enjoy the show? I thought you liked pretty girls now.”

“Fuck you. I don’t want to watch you fool around with some club chick.”

“Oh really? Maybe I don’t want to see you all over the media with Rose.”

“Maybe I don’t want to see you with anyone else.”

“So you get to play Mr Perfect Boyfriend with Rose and I get to what, not fuck anyone?”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“What, Hollander? You want me to fuck you in secret before you go home to fuck your girlfriend?”

“We’re not fucking”

“You’re fucking kidding me, Hollander.”

“Fuck you, asshole. It’s none of your business, anyway.”

“So Mr Perfect Boyfriend doesn’t want to fuck his girlfriend?”

Ilya steps closer, an arrogant smile appearing on his face.

“Who do you want to fuck, hmm?”

“Go fuck yourself, Rozanov”

Ilya chuckles softly. “I think you’d rather I go fuck you, yes?”

My brain is fucking evil and tossed this snippet at me:

“Ilyusha”

Ilya freezes, emotions flickering too fast across his face for Shane to read.

“Where did you learn that?”

Hans turns—and for a second, he sees him as he was in the chamber: blood on his hands, jaw set, eyes steady. The image flashes through him like heat, unwanted and familiar.

Not unwanted.

“You weren’t at the feast, my lord.” Henry doesn’t quite ask.

Hans turns to start a new lap. “I didn’t feel I’d be fit company for the nobles.”

Henry doesn’t respond, and Hans turns back around to see him waiting patiently for him to continue. He’s cleaned himself up since the interrogation. Hans feels like something’s missing, and turns away from Henry to resume pacing.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Henry asks, voice quiet behind him.

Hans sighs in frustration and half throws himself down to sit on the bed. He doesn’t look up as he gestures for Henry to sit down.

Henry sits a foot away. Hans bites his lip, thinking.

“Maybe Hanush was right. Maybe I’m not a good noble,” Hans says at last. “I’ve spent my entire life being told about the virtues of being a noble—honor, generosity, bravery—but never quite living up to it. Nobles shouldn’t be involved in torture.”

“Just for peasants like me?” Hans doesn’t need to look at Henry to know he’s frowning, feeling slighted.

“That’s not what I mean, Henry. Being in that room, torturing that man—God’s wounds, we never even knew his name. What kind of noble am I?”

He doesn’t look, but he can feel Henry’s presence—solid, still, the warmth of him a reminder that he hasn’t moved away.

“You’re the best nobleman I know. You’re brave and you’re funny when you’re not being an arse.” Hans laughs derisively at this, unable to keep up his mask.

There’s no bite in Henry’s voice when he goes on. “It’s not like you were holding the tongs. Or the hammer. Or the knife. You’re not the one who killed him.”

Hans tosses his head at this last part before retorting, “Like you said in that room—I’m your lord. It makes no difference who was holding the tool.”

He looks directly into Henry’s eyes, so close to his now. “You’re my squire. My bodyguard. My man. I’m responsible for you.”

It’s only because Hans is looking directly at him that he sees the flush that spreads across Henry’s cheeks. His eyes follow the color up, and that’s when he sees it—a faint smear of dried blood just below Henry’s ear, missed when he cleaned up. Hans tilts his head in puzzlement at the response.

“How do you feel about it?”

Henry ducks his head, avoiding eye contact. “Not as badly as you seem to be feeling about it.”

Hans growls and grabs Henry’s chin to force Henry to look at him.

“That’s the problem, I don’t feel bad. I know I should feel shamed about it, but the only thing I feel is satisfaction at you torturing him.”

Henry’s frozen in place where Hans holds him. Realization slowly dawns across his face.

“That’s not quite true. Satisfaction wasn’t the only thing we felt, was it?” Hans’ eyes widen at Henry’s direct challenge. He starts to stammer a response before swallowing it down and clearing his throat. Henry’s eyes flicker down to Hans’ lips for a second before meeting his lord’s gaze again.

“Were you thinking about it when I got here, my lord?” Henry’s voice is soft, barely adding emphasis on the last two words. “Did you wonder how far I would go for you? What I’d do for you?” Hans can only stare at Henry in wonderment.

“Out of duty?” Hans breathes out. Henry growls at this.

“You think I’d snap a man’s fingers out of duty? Cripple his legs?” Henry leans closer to Hans with each word. “No, not out of duty. I did it all for you.” His lips are nearly against Hans’ now, and Hans can feel every harsh breath against his face.

“Aye, I did think about what you’d do for me. And what you’d do to me. Just how far would you go for me?” He can hear his own voice now—quiet, unsteady. Hans desperately wants Henry to close that last inch, to make the first move.

“All the way, to my death if that’s what you wanted.” Hans realizes Henry won’t, can’t make the first move in this dance. They both know full well that Hans is the lord.

The captive lifts his head, eyeing the new arrivals.

“New blood? Did the last two get tired?” he mocks. “I don’t give a fuck who you are. I still won’t tell you anything.”

“Lord von Bergow thinks otherwise,” Hans replies disdainfully. The captive shakes his head, unimpressed. “Aye? Then all three of you can go and hold hands on your way to hell.”

Hans frowns at the almost cheerful venom of the response and forces out an equally false laugh.

“We’ve got a joker here. Who are you?” He senses, more than sees, Henry shifting beside him.

The captive sounds almost bored. “Nobody important.”

Hans steps forward, moving into the captive’s space. “That’s for us to judge, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“And who are you? If you’re not guards.”

“We asked first. So answer nicely, or…” Henry lets the threat linger.

Hans exhales in relief as Henry finally speaks—this is better as a joint effort. He can’t help finishing the threat.

“Or we’ll use force.”

“Do as you like, yellow-bellies! You’ll end up just like von Bergow—on the gallows! Like all traitors!”

Hans watches Henry stiffen at the reminder of what he nearly lost. For a moment, he thinks Henry might walk away.

He doesn’t.

He hits.

The sound of the backhand cracks through the chamber. The captive jerks sideways, blood hitting the floor with a wet slap.

Henry’s hand doesn’t drop right away. His fingers curl slowly, like he’s still holding the shape of the strike. His chest rises with a slow, deliberate breath.

Hans draws a sharp breath. It’s not shock. Not horror. It’s something darker—colder—and it coils down his spine like pleasure.

The captive spits and curses, but Hans barely hears it. His eyes stay on Henry. He forces himself to focus. “This is going nowhere,” he says, hoping his voice sounds steadier than he feels. But part of him hopes the captive keeps provoking Henry.

Henry grabs the captive’s jaw, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

“We’re not fucking traitors. You murdered our men—cut them down while we were on a mission of peace.”

For the first time, the captive blinks uneasily. It fades quickly, his smugness returning, but Hans notices. He looks around the room, eyes catching on the barrel of tools. He glances back at Henry, speculative, then smiles grimly at the captive.

“You know, my friend here is a blacksmith’s son. And he knows exactly what to do with something like… these tongs.”

Henry picks up the tongs. His grip is firm. A muscle ticks in his jaw. He swallows—slow and deliberate.

Hans doesn’t have to look to know Henry’s moving. He can feel it—the air shifting, the moment stretching. Henry plays his part without needing instruction. That might be the best part.

The captive flinches and swings slightly in his chains, snarling in defiance.

“Like you yellow-bellied whoresons would do it. Run back to your lord and tell him you failed.”

Henry chuckles.

“Von Bergow isn’t my lord. He is.” He jerks his head toward Hans. “I’m doing this for him.”

Henry smiles—obedient, assured. No hesitation. Hans feels it settle in his chest like a weight.

“I don’t think he believes you’ll do it,” Hans says lightly.

Henry maneuvers the tongs around one of the captive’s fingers.

“Tell me who your leader is, and I won’t break the joint.”

Hans leans in slightly, pleased when the captive scoffs. Henry begins to squeeze, slowly. The captive screams. A sickening crack follows. Henry’s breath catches at the sound—sharp and sudden. His fingers shift on the tongs, adjusting as if savoring the resistance.

Hans bites his lip.

The captive pants heavily, trying to suppress his whimpers, and glares at Hans.

“Fuck you bastards. I’m glad your men died.”

“Try the next finger,” Hans suggests.

Henry moves without being told twice. Hans watches the ease of it, how natural it’s becoming. The captive hesitates.

“His name is Jan, alright? You bastards,” he gasps.

Henry steps back, swinging the tongs idly as he waits for Hans’ next question.

“And where is he? Where’s the rest of your pack of scum? You’d best tell the truth, or you’ll spend the rest of your miserable life begging on the streets to stay alive.”

The captive watches the tongs, no longer smug.

“You can put them down. He’s in Nebakov with the rest.”

Hans steps forward and claps the captive on the shoulder. “There’s a good boy. See how much easier it is when you tell the truth? You can put the tongs down, Henry.”

Henry places the tongs aside and moves to stand beside Hans.

“I want to know how you managed to take Nebakov.”

“Old Nebak’s a gullible fool. Didn’t have many men. We took it with one finger up our noses.”

“No need to be rude, my friend,” Hans replies cheerfully. “We’ve still got questions. Who are you lot, really—and what do you want?”

The captive glares at Hans in silence. Hans sighs and shakes his head in disappointment. Henry looks to him, questioning.

“Which tool this time, my lord?”

Hans closes his eyes briefly, biting his lip.

“The dagger. Let’s see if our friend here is more cooperative without his sight.”

Henry picks up the dagger, flipping it casually in his hand as he moves behind the captive. The man tries to keep him in view, straining in his chains. His nerve breaks when Henry grabs his hair and jerks his head back.

“We’re patriots. We give a shit about this land. We don’t want you whoresons fucking it up.”

“That why you ambushed us?” Hans snaps. “That your excuse for killing my men?”

Henry responds to Hans’ anger without a word. He draws the point just above the captive’s eye, trailing it lightly.

“Fuck you, fuck your men, and—”

The captive doesn’t finish. Henry slices the blade across his forehead in one clean motion. Blood spills immediately, a thick sheet blinding him. He thrashes in the chains, spitting curses as he tries to shake it from his eyes.

Hans doesn’t move. He watches the blood trail down the captive’s face, drip onto Henry’s hand. Watches Henry’s breathing change. His stance. His calm.

He’s never felt less like a noble. Not even with the noose tight around his neck. That day had been fear—this is something else.

He raises a hand to his throat, thumb brushing the skin where the rope had burned. It tingles. Henry sees him touch the spot and flinches like he’s been struck. His eyes flick to Hans’ throat—just for a second—then away. His fingers tighten around the dagger hilt. Then he drops it.

The motion is sharp. Almost reckless.

He grabs the hammer instead.

The clang echoes through the chamber as Henry slams it into the bar above the captive’s head. Both the captive and Hans jump. Henry rests the hammer on the captive’s shoulder, chest heaving.

Hans doesn’t breathe.

Henry stands with the hammer resting against the captive’s broken body, his chest rising with each panting breath. His face is streaked with blood, his hands painted with it. The torchlight dances across his armor, gilding the filth in gold.

He looks dangerous. Alive. More beautiful than Hans wants to admit.

Hans clears his throat, rough and low, as if that might steady him. It doesn’t.

“You’re the reason he was nearly hanged. If you and your pack hadn’t ambushed us, we’d have finished our mission. They wouldn’t have strung him up like a fucking peasant if you hadn’t stolen that letter and killed our men. You put the noose around his neck.”

Hans’ eyes widen. He hadn’t realized—not fully—how deeply it hurt Henry. He clenches his fists, aching to reach for him but resisting. He needs to see what Henry will do next.

The captive stammers, blood still obscuring his eyes. Henry’s patience snaps. He slams the hammer into the man’s left knee. The crack is sickening. The captive howls.

Henry leans into the captive’s space, his face close, voice ragged. He doesn’t seem to notice how near he is, how hard he’s breathing, or the flush creeping up his neck.

“It was Olda—Olda Semine! He did it! He helped us—”

He breaks down sobbing. The fight is gone.

Hans can’t look away from Henry: the fierce light in his eyes, the blood smeared across his face, his hands, his armor. In the flickering torchlight, Henry is devastating.

He doesn’t look at the captive. He couldn’t if he tried. There’s only Henry—bloodstained, panting, blazing in the torchlight. Beautiful in a way Hans can’t put words to.

“We can’t let von Bergow know about Olda. He’ll slaughter Semine.”

“Aye. But if he told us, he’ll tell von Bergow’s men too.”

Hans licks his lips.

“We have to do this… We need to make sure he won’t tell them anything more.”

The words sound right. Measured. Necessary.

He doesn’t think too hard about why it came out so easily.

Henry speaks quietly. “Is that my lord’s command? To kill him?”

They breathe out together, like something unspoken just settled between them.

There are many types of fears - fear of physical danger, phobias, fear of loss, fear of social exclusion, fear of consequences, fear of failure. The main area I see Hans accused of being a coward in is the physical side so I’m going to focus on that.

Shoutout to Mamalazzer for their YouTube video of all Hans/Henry cutscenes in the first game - it was super useful for my ‘research’ here.

The archery and sword competition - the dialogue between Bernard and Hans makes it clear that Hans enjoys fighting which undercuts any idea that Hans avoids physical confrontation. Hans’ eagerness to cross swords with Henry (insert your own joke here) also speaks to that - risk of physical harm in a ‘friendly’ fight is not a factor that controls Hans. He also doesn’t hold grudges against Bernard’s men who have beaten him in fights.

When his standing as a nobleman is insulted, he jumps straight to physical confrontation. Hanush also refers to Hans’ repeated brawling.

Next up - The Prey.

So Hans gets captured, injured and is tied up by Cumans with only a blacksmith’s boy as his chance of rescue. When Henry finds him, he’s insulting the Cumans and actively trying to provoke them - cowardly, right? There’s only the chance they decide to cut his throat for being too annoying.

His demeanor after Henry rescues him is pretty calm given the circumstances. He’s grateful for the rescue and is still cracking jokes with Henry.

Side note: listen to how Hanush laughs and look at how he looks at Radzig when Radzig takes Henry into his personal service. Warhorse are cunning bastards.

Not much to say about the bath quest, Hans is nearly drowned and his response is to want more wine.

Going up against Wolflin - Hans is the one fired up for battle and leading the charge if Henry doesn’t go another route.

Talmberg, Night Raid - Hans volunteers to be part of a sneak attack - an attack that means they can’t wear armor so if they get caught, there’s a good chance of getting killed. He gets given the chance to back out of doing this but he persists in his choice (it’s sweet that part of his answer is that he wants to keep Henry out of trouble, aww, and Henry’s answering smile!).

I think he’s right in arguing with Henry about going further - it is a massive risk and it’s not cowardice to take what they’d achieved so far.

The conversation after, Henry asks Hans if he wished he’d stayed home instead of the nighttime adventure and his response is pretty clear:

“You must be joking! I haven’t had so much fun since… actually ever.”

Watching the KCD cutscenes with Hans is pretty fun, especially with all the Hansry friendly dialogue.

The final mission with the confrontation with Toth also has Hans directly in the fight, no cowardice to be seen.