Stuff and Nonsense

He does not mind it at first. He had stormed off to his rooms to seethe after snapping at Chamberlain Ulrich with hardly a word to Henry or anyone else, wanting the time and space to vent is anger in a way that will not jeopardize the diplomatic nature of their mission. The chambers they have granted him are fine enough. Solid wooden paneling and high ceilings, clean furnishings, and a fresh pitcher of wine. However, there is something decidedly gloomy and foreboding about the whole of the keep, and the more time he spends on his own, the more it feels like the walls are closing in on him.

Going out to try and mingle does not alleviate the sensation. There is a small bathhouse, and a dice table down by the training ring, but all of the servants and guards seem uninterested in speaking with him beyond polite formalities, and he still barely has a handful of groschen to his name to lure them in like he would back home. He cannot believe he almost misses the tavern out in Zhelejov with its peasant food and horrible minstrels murdering the art of verse. At least people there knew how to have a good time. Trosky is boring as hell.

The fact that he feels as though he is about to jump out of his skin every time the chapel bell rings does not help matters.

Eventually, he tracks down the scribe and bothers him into lending him a book to read, if only to have something to pretend to be doing. The selection is as dry as an old nun's nethers, but he manages to dig up something about the history of the castle and the surrounding region, looking for a scrap of diplomatic insight, and praying that it will be less dull than the subject matter would imply.

God, ever the sadist, sees fit to answer his plea by making the entire second chapter of the blasted tome about how the very fortress he happens to be standing in was built upon an entrance to hell, and how frequently the noble von Bergow family had stood as sentinels against Satan’s minions.

Even if it happens to be a load of nonsense, it is a bit more excitement than he had been hoping for. Hans has never been the most devout of Christians, but he believes in spirits and demons well enough. His old nanny had made certain of that. And what is worse, is that Trosky feels like it would be the sort of place for demons and hauntings.

Just his luck.

He abandons the book and traipses down to one of the kitchens, hoping for a bit of food and the distraction of idle gossip from the maids working there. Possibly a bit of light flirting if any of them happen to be comely enough to suit his tastes. Even a peasant girl covered in cooking grease would be a welcome reprieve from tales of fire and brimstone and the looming absence of his former entourage.

He barely gets one foot in the door before he sees the old cook raising her ladle like a cudgel to brandish at the other servants as she starts in on an aggrieved rant about one of the castle towers being infested with demons again, and how the chamberlain couldn’t be arsed to do anything about it because he was too busy playing king of the keep while Sir Otto was away. Puffing himself full of hot air, making a fool of himself chasing after women at the wedding at Semine, and rushing to put some fool in the noose instead of taking care of real problems.

The fool in question turns on his heel before any of them catch sight of him. As much as he would enjoy listening to someone else badmouthing that stuck-up buffoon Ulrich, Hans does not think he could stomach it if it also came with yet more reports of demons at Trosky. Or any reminders about the recent rope that had graced his noble neck.

Devoid of any better ideas, he takes to walking the ramparts of the inner bailey. Trying not to look too much like he is waiting around anxiously for his wayward page, and feeling like some sort of lingering spirit himself. Seen but not acknowledged. Not approached. Not wanted.

Maybe some part of him is. Maybe the young lord who had ridden out from Rattay in his crisp yellow livery, shining like the sun at all the promise that this simple mission held for him, had shuffled off his mortal coil down on the gallows that are still standing by the castle gates. He may have perished even earlier than that, come to it. Out in the pigsty at Bozhena’s, bleeding from his guts into the mud and the refuse. Or cut down back at the pond with Oats and Tankard and the others. He does not know. He only knows that does not feel much like himself anymore.

The huntsmen around Trosky had named him ‘Ghost’ when he had turned to poaching to survive. Perhaps the name is more apt than they had intended. A soul who cannot depart the realm of the living because of some unfinished business. A nameless echo that can neither see nor hear beyond the wounds of its own heart. A vengeful wraith screaming at the injustice of his fellows slain. A wounded soldier limping home long after his lifeless body has fallen to the bloodied earth. A pale lady standing watch from her tower every evening, dark eyes trained on the horizon for a knight who is never coming home.

But then there is a gray horse. A man in dented armor with a sword at his hip. The happy bark of a patchy mongrel prancing along at his heels.

Henry rides in with the twilight, looking windswept and rosy-cheeked. There are broad spatters of dirt and blood across his gear, but he still seems just as dauntless as ever, bustling about removing Pebbles’ tack and fishing around in his saddlebags to find a few scraps for Mutt’s supper. It is hard to believe that the man had been at death’s doorstep a few weeks ago.

He tugs his helmet off and rolls his neck and shoulders a few times, shaking out the stiffness from his journey. When he tips his head back, he catches sight of Hans watching him from the balustrades and his face breaks into a wide smile, as if on instinct. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat and grime, there is a crust of something suspiciously like blood under his left ear, and he still has a split lip from the brawl at the Semine wedding that has not healed yet. Despite the layers of filth and bruises, Henry’s pleasure at seeing him is apparent and unmistakable, and in the dwindling daylight, he nearly seems to glow with it.

A prickle of warmth seems to spread from Hans’ chest all the way down to his toes as some unnamed quiet thing he has not dared to put words to slides more firmly into place.

Henry is here. Back at his side. Waving him down to join him in the courtyard. Alive and breathing, and so vivid it nearly hurts to look at him for more than a few moments together.

“Sir Hans!” Henry says by way of greeting.

There is a sudden rush of air to fill his lungs. Heartrate ticking upwards as his feet move towards the stairs of their own volition. The walls of Trosky recede at the sound of Henry’s calling. Not to a ghost. Not to a condemned man standing on a gibbet. Not to some unrecognizable wretch who fucks up everything he touches. To him.

Sir Hans Capon.

Knight and noble and friend.

Still living.

Yes. He is still living. And so long as that remains true, there will always be a chance at retrieving any parts of himself that may have been lost to grief and struggle.

After all, Henry had lost everything he had ever known in a single day and still retained his heart. In fact, he is more alive than anyone he knows. Hans could hardly bear to do any less, unless he wants to end up bested by a common blacksmith’s boy.

Again.

“Henry!” Hans answers as he reaches both the courtyard and his page, only slightly out of breath, “Where in God’s name have you been?”

“My apologies, Sir Hans.” Henry says, sheepishly rubbing at the back of his neck, despite not sounding terribly apologetic. “It seemed like you wanted to get some rest, and I had a few things that needed taking care of, so I thought you wouldn’t miss me if I rode out for a bit.”

“A bit!” Hans exclaims with a disbelieving scoff. “You’ve been gone for more than half a day!”

“Aye. Right. Well…” Henry coughs, finally finding the grace to look a bit guilty. “I wanted to go back to Semine and-”

“What?” Hans barks, cutting him off. “Semine?! Why the fuck would you go back there?”

“To apologize. And-”

“Apologize! What for? Getting half the wedding guests to beat the shit out of you?”

“I was still standing by the time the guards took us in.” Henry says defensively, his tongue darting out to lick at the patch of blood where his lip remains unhealed. “Besides, it was all just a misunderstanding, really, and I wanted to clear our good names. Well. As much as possible, at any rate. Regardless of how much of a twit that Vuytek is, you can’t deny that the scene he walked in on was…”

“Salacious?” Hans suggests, waggling his eyebrows.

“Misleading,” Henry insists through gritted teeth, color rising in his cheeks, “I know we were alone together in the cellar, but she was crying, for fuck’s sake, not sticking her hand down my braies.”

“Mores the pity,” Hans tuts, “For all the trouble it landed us in, one of us might’ve at least gotten something fun out of it.”

“Well, I’m just glad to have gotten out of that mess with both our hides intact, if I’m being honest,” Henry admits with a gusty exhale of breath. “It was a near thing.”

“Don’t remind me.” Hans grimaces, one hand reaching up to briefly run his fingers at his collar.  Needing to be sure the rope is truly gone.

“Right. Sorry.” Henry frowns and shakes his head as though to rid himself of the memory as well. “Anyway, while I was at Semine, I talked to one of their guardsmen, Gules, who used to be a something of a robber baron. He suggested that getting rid of a few members of his old gang would probably go a long way towards earning back a bit of favor with the locals. So, that was what I was doing most of the morning.”

“Well, that explains all the blood, I suppose.”

“Oh. No. Most of that is from when I saved Master Voyta.”

“Who?”

“Voyta. He’s a painter. He’s working here at Trosky Castle, repairing some of the artwork on the walls or something. You might have seen him coming back earlier.”

Hans very much doubts it. They had only been inside the keep and out of the dungeons for a day, and when he had gotten bored enough to begin his vigil on the battlements, it was with only one traveler in mind. And it was not one who could easily be mistaken for some wandering artist.

“You saved a painter?” Hans blinks at him. “From what? More bandits?”

“A pack of wolves, actually. I had nearly gotten back to the castle when I found him tied to a tree. He told me that he had gotten into a bit of row with some fellas he was playing dice with, and they robbed him and left him out for the beasts. He’s an odd one, I admit. Cagey. But polite enough. He asked me to see about getting his dice and brushes back for him, though. So, I had to turn round and ride back out a ways before coming here again.”  

“Jesus, Henry,” Hans shakes his head at him in disbelief, “Is this a typical outing for you?”

Henry shrugs.

“More or less. It’s not so different from the errands Captain Bernard and my father would send me on back in Rattay.”

“A pity I can’t reward your hard day of toil the way I could back home, eh?” Hans says, nearly wistful, “Wine, women, and song?”

“You’re talking like you’ve been gone for years,” Henry huffs out a laugh, his expression fond.

“I know,” Hans agrees with a quiet groan, “It feels like years, though, doesn’t it? So much has happened to us since then…”

“Aye.” Henry answers, his tone a touch more somber. More conciliatory. “But we’ll be back soon enough, eh? We’ll deliver the message to Nebakov tomorrow, help route the bandits who attacked us, and then ride back home with von Bergow’s answer to Hanush’s letter. You’ll be drinking Sylvan Red with your favorite bathhouse wenches by this time next week.”  

“I hope you’re right.”

“Course I am.” Henry grins at him, confident and disarming, despite the layers of dirt. Hans finds some of the tension he had been holding between his shoulders easing. He can puff himself up with self-assurance easily enough, especially if it means sustaining some modicum of pride, but if Henry is willing to put words into the shape of something like a promise, it is much more likely to become true.

Henry will make it true.

“Well, I can’t say I’ll be sorry to see the back of this place when the time comes,” Hans chuckles dryly.

“Oh, come on,” Henry says, joining in at the tail end of his laughter, “We might have had a bad introduction to the place, but surely the guestrooms in the keep are a sight better than that little poacher’s camp you were bedding down in before, eh? They gave you some fine clothes and a sword, at least. And a horse. That’s not nothing.”

“The clothes belonged to von Bergow’s son, as I understand it, and the sword is the finest one their blacksmith had to hand, which is not saying much in terms of quality,” Hans’ mouth puckers in distaste at the reminder, “An ill fit on both counts, if I’m being honest, but vastly preferable to being without.”

“His lordship is very brave for making do with leftovers and castoffs,” Henry smirks.

“I am,” Hans agrees with a proud tilt of his chin, “And the fact that my hose keeps bunching in odd places isn’t even the worst of it.”

“What’s the worst of it?” Henry wonders, the smirk widening into an expectant grin.

“I heard the cook talking to the servants earlier,” Hans tells him seriously, leaning closer as his voice drops to a few notches above a whisper, “Apparently, Trosky was built on a gateway to hell or something, and now there’s an…infestation.”

Henry’s brow furrows, trying to track the puzzling shift from humor and hose to kitchen gossip.

“Rats?”

“Rats?” Hans echoes in disbelief, “Do you think I’d get worked up over some garden variety vermin?”

“I dunno,” Henry shrugs, “Maybe living near a gate to hell makes the rats really big or something?”

“I’m talking about demons, you clod!”

Henry makes a face, his mouth twisting, as though he is uncertain if he should be laughing or not.

Hans scowls at him.

“I’m serious!”

“No, I know, I know,” Henry assures him, holding up his hands in a gesture of supplication, even as the corners of his lips curl upwards in poorly concealed humor, “It’s just that… Well. Servants say all sort of things, don’t they? Gossip and tall tales and the like. Especially cooks. And especially when they think a stranger might be listening in. That’s all. I mean…Trosky has a chapel. And its own priest. Surely, he wouldn’t let demons run amok around here, eh?”

“Don’t say that word!” Hans hisses at him.

“What word?”

“Don’t you know that when you say the word ‘demon,’ it summons one of them?”

“No. Who told you that?”

“My old nursemaid. She really worked me over on the subject, let me tell you. And she knew what she was talking about.”

“Well, alright, but…you just said the word ‘demon’ yourself,” Henry points out, “Twice, in fact.”

“…Shit!” Hans curses, thoroughly dismayed, “Now there’ll be even more of them!”

Henry has the audacity to snort out a laugh, although he tries to hide it by pretending to cough loudly into his fist.

“It’s not funny, you villain!” Hans insists, his voice becoming somewhat shrill in his distress, “I just escaped the noose, and now I could get dragged off to hell in my sleep!”

“Nobody’s going to drag you to hell,” Henry promises smilingly, “I wouldn’t let that happen.”

His tone is warm and cajoling, as though trying to comfort a small boy instead of a knight. Infuriatingly, Hans feels the taught line of his panicked body begin to relax back towards something pliant, regardless of the affront to his pride. Annoyed and confused and still a bit scared, and very unwilling to own up to any of it, Hans shoves Henry’s shoulder.

“You?” He bites out peevishly. “You’re were too busy drying damsel’s tears and dragging wandering artists out of the woods today to even spare a few hours to rescue me from boredom! How would you even know I’d being abducted by a pack of demons?!”

Henry winces.

“You said it again.”

“Dammit!”

“Look, I’m sorry,” Henry sighs out, rubbing at the back of his neck again, smearing dirt and blood as he goes. “You’re right. After everything that happened… I shouldn’t have left you on your own. At least not without telling you where I was going first. I’ll make it up to you, alright?”

“I don’t need you to coddle me,” Hans insists, folding his arms stubbornly.

“I know you don’t,” Henry assures him, “But if I go talk to the chamberlain and see how they usually handle these…problems, maybe there’ll be something I can do to get rid of the beasts. That’d be good for everyone, wouldn’t it?”

“Hm, I suppose you’re right,” Hans allows, “but don’t you dare go mentioning my name when you speak with that idiot. The las thing I need is for him to think that he’s been handed some new means of terrorizing me. Or even worse, to have him show up at my chambers with armfuls of holy relics and some more blathering nonsense and pontifications in the hopes of my forgiveness. I want nothing to do with any of it.”

“I understand,” Henry nods, “He won’t hear a peep from me. I’ll come find you after it’s all taken care of.”

“Good. I think I’ll retire to my rooms for the evening. I want to get an early start riding out to Nebakov tomorrow.”

“As you say, Sir. With any luck, this won’t take me too long, and I won’t disturb your rest when I come back to report.”

“Never mind about that,” Hans waves him off, “I won’t sleep a wink until I know those d- …Those fiends are taken care of anyway. Just be sure to announce yourself properly when you come. My door is barred to anyone else. I’ve had about as much of these people as I can stomach for one day.”

“Of course,” Henry agrees with another bob of his head. Despite his previous airs of confidant ease, he takes a moment to look past Hans and eye the castle looming over them, shifting his weight on the balls of his feet, a touch of apprehension furrowing his brow. “Right. Well. Wish me luck. I don’t think I’ve ever fought a demo- a d-devilish…specter before. Hopefully, regular steel works on them.”

“Good luck, Henry,” Hans says, clapping him once on the shoulder, “I’m sure that this task will involve more prayers and charms than strength of arms. Probably. If it comes to that, though, come and find me. I won’t send you off to the Devil on your own.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Oh, and Henry?” Hans calls after him as he turns to leave. His page stops in his tracks, glancing at him over his shoulder expectantly. Waiting for further orders. He looks tired. Undoubtably from a long day of fighting and adventures, but also possibly of a certain young lord who won’t stop harping at him.

Hans clears his throat.

“I would have gone with you today. If you had asked.”

Henry’s smile illuminates his face like candleflame. Hans lets out a breath. Nearly takes a step after him.

“Next time,” Henry promises. He walks away then, the blood and grime on him seeming to vanish in the long shadows of twilight as he makes his way up into the keep. A door opens, the light within swallows him whole, and Hans finds himself alone again.

~

It has been fully dark for several hours by the time Henry knocks softly at Hans’ door.

“Sir Hans?” He calls out in a loud whisper. “Are you still awake?”

“I told you I would be,” Hans replies as he slides the latch back and opens the door to let him in.

He had stripped down to his hose and his chemise while he waited. The summer heat had tempted him for more, but he disliked the idea of being so exposed in this strange and foreboding place. Not to mention that the humiliation of potentially being dragged away by demons in nothing but his braies was not something he felt he could ever recover from. Being chased through the woods by murderous bandits while practically in the nude had been bad enough.

By contrast, Henry was still wearing most of his armor, although it was clear he had stopped by a trough to scrub the worst of the filth from his face and hands. Hans’ winces as his page clanks and clatters into his room and towards the hearth. Their meeting is far from clandestine, but he would still prefer it if no one came to ask him about why his escort was visiting him in the middle of the night. Fully armed, no less.    

“It’s done.” Henry tells him, and he can hear the tired smile in his voice more than he can see it in the warm glow cast by firelight. “Chamberlain Ulrich said that this happens fairly regularly, so they already had some holy water set aside for it. All that needed doing was to throw a few sprinkles where people reported devilish activity. Would have gotten it done twice as fast if that arse of a blacksmith hadn’t kept giving me directions to all the latrines of Trosky. Bloody twat.”

“Why in God’s name did you pay him any heed after the first time he tricked you?” Hans wonders, huffing out a dry laugh despite himself.

“Well… I wanted to be thorough, that’s all,” Henry coughs, glancing away for a moment, “I mean, it is a serious matter, isn’t it? Can’t have some hellish horde breaking in to terrorize good Christians in their sleep, can we?”

“You didn’t seem too convinced of that earlier,” Hans points out with a sniff, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

Henry shrugs.

“You did.”

“I was-” Hans begins, his first instinct to be snappish and defensive after weeks of being ridiculed and ignored by just about everyone in this miserable backwoods region. It feels like it is a mockery, somehow. To task someone of Henry’s talent and ability with something like this. Something that von Bergow’s men could have handled easily on their own. It feels like Henry should know it, too. Should be laughing at him with the rest of the yokels here. But he isn’t. He is simply standing in Hans’ room in battered road-dusted armor that he had not spared a moment to remove, the sweat and toil of his day long since dried on his skin and his gambeson alike, still stinking vaguely of horse and sunshine as he waits patiently to be given his next duty.

The hot flash of Hans’ indignation cools into something more like embarrassment. Possibly even shame. He has not even apologized for all of the horrible things he had said to Henry when they were on that pillory yet. Not really. Not in a way that Henry will believe that he means it. The strange and fragile friendship that had blossomed so readily between them back in Rattay is stilted here in Trosky. Wilting on the vine. Mostly of his own doing.

But Henry is here anyway. As asked. As always. As though rummaging around an unfamiliar castle half the evening and throwing holy water on everything so that his lord could get some shut-eye was not a ridiculous thing to have to do.

“Thanks, Henry,” Hans finishes lamely, feeling the heat crawl up the back of his neck to prickle at his ears, grateful for the dim lighting to hide his discomfort.

“Ah, it was nothing,” Henry waves a hand dismissively, his voice warm. Clearly pleased with both himself and the scant bit of gratitude Hans has offered him. “Compared to everything else we’ve had to deal with, sprinkling a bit of water on all the fireplaces in the keep hardly seems mentioning.”

Hans would be more inclined to believe him if he did not know with a frankly aggravating amount of certainty that Henry would have said the exact same thing if he really had ended up fighting demons for him.

“It’s worth mentioning if it is keeping the forces of Hell at bay, and no one else in this blasted castle can be bothered to do it,” Hans grumbles, annoyed on both his and Henry’s behalf. “There is no need for you to be so modest about it either. I know you did it because I asked you to, as you should, but it is demeaning to both of us that the task fell to you in the first place. We should be treated as honored guests here, and von Bergow and his men act as though we’re no better than one of his vassals. Like that pitiful Lord Semine and his miserable little holdings. He’s already got me delivering messages for him like some sort of errand boy; the next thing you know, I’ll be polishing his saddle while you go to fetch him wine.”

“Now that would be a sight,” Henry chuckles.

“Oh, shove off.”

As he speaks, a realization strikes Hans like lightning. No one else has been in the room except him.  Not since he had come back and stripped down for the evening. His gaze flits past where Henry is standing. Eyeing the rosy hearth behind him there, still bright and crackling and warm. Unpurified. Vulnerable. Potentially briming with malice and brimstone.

Hans swallows thickly.

“Henry…did you say that you had cleansed all of the fireplaces in the keep?”

 “All but one, your lordship,” Henry grins, holding up a ceramic vial and shaking it so that Hans can hear the generous amount of liquid sloshing about inside. “I saved yours for last so that we could be as liberal with the holy water as you like. The fireplace, the windows, we can even sprinkle some around the bedframe, if you want. Not even the smallest of Satan’s servants will have a chance of sneaking in here once we’re done.”

“No need to be quite that over-zealous in the application, surely.” Hans lips curl upwards in a wry smile. “If you sprinkle it over the bed, a poor sinner such as myself is likely to catch flame when I go to take my rest.”

“Your sins can hardly be any worse than mine, my lord, and I’ve yet to feel the slightest singe,” Henry tells him brightly as he pulls out the stopper on the bottle and goes about splashing some of the contents along the edge of the hearth. As promised, he is generous with the amount spilled, and the fire hisses and crackles in protest. “But we can use this blessing as you like. Whether it’s your doorframe or the chest with your belongings. We can even try sanctifying that second-hand sword of yours. That might be helpful.”

“Well, it could hardly make the thing much worse.”

“Is it really that bad?” Henry wonders frowningly, pausing in his work to look back at him.

“Perhaps not,” Hans admits with a sigh, “It’s not as sharp as I’d like, though, and the balance is off. Not in general, but for me. I’m sure you’ll tell me I’m being snobbish, but I’m used to fighting with a sword that was made specifically for my hand. I’m talented enough to make up the difference, of course, but if it came to fighting for our lives, I’d rather have every advantage we can get.”

“Ah, there’s nothing snobbish about wanting the best means to defend yourself,” Henry says with a shake of his head, “Like you said, it could be the difference between life and death.”

“It doesn’t seem to hinder you, though,” Hans notes.

“Believe me, I’ve had plenty of scrapes where a better sword might have spared me a trip to the sawbones and three pounds of bandages.”

Hans finds his hands balling into fists at his sides as fragments of visceral memory overtake him for a moment. Henry face down in the mud coughing up half a lung full of pond water with an arrow protruding out of his shoulder like a stuck pig. Henry laying cold and motionless at the base of a cliff, deaf to Hans’ urgent calling. Henry slowly dying in his arms as they staggered through the woods, fighting demons no holy water could cure, his blood oozing out between Hans’ fingers in a steady stream.

He had seen Henry battered before. After a tourney in Rattay back when he could barely hold a sword. After a run-in with a rough batch of bandits. After being caught and tortured at Vranik. But none of those instances had been while he was under Hans’ command.

None of them had been his fault.

Christ’s wounds, he had nearly gotten them both killed because he wanted to go for a swim. He had gotten the rest of his retinue killed for it. It is a wonder that Henry had not run off at the first available opportunity and never looked back.

It is a wonder that he does not seem to hate him for it.

“Hans?”   

He blinks, coming back to himself to find Henry staring at him with those storm-dark eyes of his, his brow knitted in puzzlement at his silence. His name feels like a different word when Henry says it like that. Like an equal. Like a friend. As if there are no differences between them. Hans supposes that he should feel affronted at the peasant’s presumption, but he does not. He never has.

Henry has had the audacity to use his name in other less flattering settings, of course. Laced with venom on the pillory. Dripping with scorn at the Semine wedding. Rife with fear as the guards had hauled him away from Hans’ cell, shouting and struggling at every step.

It is nice to hear it spoken this way again.

“Don’t look so perplexed, Hal,” Hans chides him gently. Fondly. “Your face will get stuck like that and then no woman will have you. They’ll all think you a simpleton.”

“His lordship will forgive me for saying so, but if no one ever bedded any simpletons, I reckon there’d be a lot fewer of them.”

Hans laughs at that. A real laugh. Loud and ringing. Shaking him from the center of his chest all the way down to his bones.

God, how long had it been since he had laughed at anything out of genuine good humor?

“True enough,” Hans concedes, still smiling, “Well, then do as you like with your face, but repeat whatever it was you said earlier. My thoughts got tangled up in useless nonsense.”

“Well…I was just sayin’…that I could have a look at that sword, if you like,” Henry offers, sounding uncertain, nearly bashful, “I could definitely get it sharpened up for you. I might be able to do something about the balance too, if you tell me what feels wrong about it. I doubt we’ll have time for me to reforge the thing before we head back home, but depending on what I can find, we might be able to replace the grip and the pommel in order to change the weight distribution to something closer to what you’d prefer.”

He clears his throat. Glances away.

“And I, uh… I could make you a new sword, too. When we get back to Rattay. To replace the one you lost.”

Hans has at least a half dozen other swords waiting for him back at Pirkstein. Swords inlaid with gold and silver and precious gemstones that Henry could likely not even guess the names of. Swords forged by masters of the highest repute from all across the kingdom, and even one or two from beyond it. A wealth of excess, as in all material things he has to his name.

He hardly cares about the missing sword beyond the inconvenience of it. He probably cares about it as much as Sir Radzig cares about Henry retrieving the sword his stepfather forged from Istvan Toth. Fine things are always worth more to a person who has never had any.

It seems unkind to mention that, though.

“And how much would this new sword of yours cost me, blacksmith’s boy?” Hans asks instead.

“Well, you might have to cover the materials, depending on how elaborate you want it,” Henry shrugs, visibly brightening at the very idea of it, “But the labor would be gratis, of course. You saved my life. I didn’t forget that just because we had a fight.”

“Please, as if you haven’t saved mine twice over since then,” Hans scoffs, waving a hand at him even as he feels a twinge of heat pinking his cheeks. Both pleased and embarrassed in equal measure.

“Maybe,” Henry admits with a hum, “But that’s not the same as being grateful. I don’t have any estates to hand out when people do things for me, you know. I don’t even have a rich uncle to give you a pony. But I can do this. I can make a sword for you. A good one.”

“You say that as though I didn’t just send you trapsing through a castle for most of the evening,” Hans smirks, “You’re my page. You’re always doing things for me.”

“That’s different,” Henry argues with a shake of his head, “That’s duty. This is…”

His voice trails away into uncertainty again as he glances up to meet Han’s eyes.

Hans wonders how that sentence was meant to end, and which part of the immutable rules of their society had stilled his tongue. If Henry wants to call it an act of friendship, but feels it is beyond his station. If he worries that Hans might take offense at the idea of a dung-grubbing peasant offering him a gift.

As a nobleman, it is both Hans’ privilege and his obligation to set and enforce the bounds of their relationship. To uphold the Law of God that sets every man in this world into his rightful place. But Henry has always been some strange mercurial force, mingling freely with nobles and peasants and clergy alike and taking up whatever mantle suits him best for the task placed before him, and Hans…

Hans has never been entirely clear on where the line between the two of them was meant to be. 

More than a servant, less than a vassal. His squire who will never be a knight. His page who is sworn to serve another lord. His friend who can never be his peer. Bound through blood and fire and death, but always with the understanding that one life was held in higher value. His loyal retainer and bodyguard. His bosom companion. His brother in arms who has killed for him. Who would die for him.

“I don’t need you to gift me a sword as some sort of recompence for saving your life, Hal,” Hans tells him at last, his voice quiet and even more sincere than he had intended, “Believe me, keeping you alive was in my own best interest.”   

 He sees Henry’s shoulders slump. Disappointed at the prospect of not being allowed to be of use. Strangely endearing. Like a hound denied the thrill of chasing a stick.

“Besides,” he continues, “leaving my good friend to die at the hands of brigands would hardly be conduct becoming of a knight.”

Henry starts a bit at the declaration, but then his face falls back into puzzlement. Considering implications. Trying to parse where the line between them falls now.

Perhaps he can see it more clearly than Hans does.

“Then…don’t think of it as me rewarding you,” Henry suggests, less hesitant than before, “Think of it as a favor that I’m doing for you. As a friend.”

“There’s really no need, Henry. You have other things to worry about.”

“I know. But I want to.”

“Very well, you stubborn ox, have it your way,” Hans sighs, pretending to be exasperated, “But I warn you, I have very high standards for any blade set into my hands.”

“That’s alright,” Henry grins, triumphant, “So do I.”

He nods towards the chest where Hans has stored his belongings for the night.

“If you give me the sword you’ve got now, I can make sure that it’s sharpened for you before we ride out tomorrow.”

Hans dislikes the idea of being alone in a castle full of strangers who recently tried to hang him without a weapon close at hand. Even more so when Henry will be sleeping all the way down by the stables and the place has just been expunged of demons. Allegedly.

“You can come and collect it from me in the morning.”

Henry makes a face at him.

“But won’t that take more time?” He asks, frowning and painfully earnest. “My bed is just a stone’s throw away from the grindstone at the forge. If I take it now, I can get it started before cock-crow and have it ready by the time you’ve broken your fast.”

“It will take whatever time it takes,” Hans says coolly, throwing in a careless shrug for good measure. He is in no mood to recount all the ways this place has unnerved him. Good friend or no, laying out all of his vulnerabilities before Henry while standing trembling and pale in his bedclothes in the middle of the night like some woebegone damsel in need of comforting sounds positively harrowing and utterly unnecessary. He narrows his eyes at his squire, hoping he will get the message to stop pushing him on the subject. He would rather avoid a second row when they have not quite made up from the previous one.

“But…before, you said that you wanted to ride out early,” Henry blunders on like a drunken bull in an abbey, completely oblivious.

Hans sucks in a sharp breath, resisting his natural urge to be snappish.

“You’re right. I did say that.” He says with a false cheer and a clear flash of annoyance. “And now I’m saying something else.”

“It’s a fair distance to Nebakov,” Henry presses, sound in his reasoning, blunt as a cudgel, and thick as a boar’s backside, “If we don’t leave by mid-morning, there’s no way we’ll make it back to Trosky before sundown, and Lord von Bergow-”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Henry!” Hans hisses, “How many times do I have to repeat myself before anything sinks into that thick skull of yours? I said that I don’t want you to take the fucking sword! Have a bit of sense for once in your life and stop bleating at me like a nanny goat!”

Henry blinks. Takes a half-step back. His brows draw down across his eyes, and Hans catches a trace of hurt in his face before he looks away from him.

“…Right.” Henry says brusquely, his expression shuttered as he shoves the half empty phial of holy water into Hans’ unexpecting grasp. “I’ll leave the rest of this with you, then. You can use it on the doorframe after I’m gone. Or the blunted sword you’re suddenly so attached to. Or your noble arse-cheeks, for all I care. It’s been a long day, and I’m done-in.”

Kurva.

“Look, I didn’t m- Sakra, Henry, would you hold on for one bloody moment?” Hans scrambles after him as he strides toward the door, fumbling the phial into one hand so that he can snatch hold of Henry’s bicep with the other. “I just- I didn’t want-”

His mind whirls as he flies through a series of quick calculations. Weighing the value of his last scraps of dignity against the looming prospect of Henry storming out of here believing that he had been talking out of his arse a few minutes ago when he said that they were friends. That the line between them is someplace other than where it is. That Hans will continue to move the boundaries they set down over and over again to suit his ever-shifting whims. That Henry should never take him at his word unless he is shouting at him.

It takes almost no consideration at all, in the end.

“I just hate this fucking place, alright?” Hans blurts out before he can think better of it.

It is enough to make Henry stop and look at him again, at least.

Hans lets out a sigh, a strange mix of relief and resignation.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad that we finally managed to get into the castle,” he says, shuffling over towards his bed and slumping down onto the mattress, “But outside of you, there’s not a soul here with any sort of regard for me. First with the utter humiliation and shit-throwing at the gate, and then all of the jeering and excitement when they wanted to have me hanged. Half of them are probably disappointed to have missed out on a good show, and they resent me for being able to escape.”

“D’you think they still want to kill you?” Henry wonders, eyes wide with surprise, “Don’t you nobles have all sorts of rules about that sort of thing?”

“We do,” Hans confirms with a nod, “But rules don’t stop someone from wishing you ill-will.”

“Lord von Bergow seems courteous enough, though, doesn’t he? Surely, he wouldn’t let his people do anything to you.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” Hans admits, running a hand through his hair and looking down at the little bottle still clenched in his hand, “However, rationale and worry rarely walk hand in hand. Besides, disparagement and treachery are not the only issues here. I am certain that you took great pains to cleanse everything to the best of your ability, Hal, but Trosky is still a gateway to Hell. Even if all of Satan’s servants are currently being kept at bay, there are probably still curses or ghosts or something lurking around these halls. The whole place just feels…wrong.”

He tilts his head to look up at Henry with a lopsided grin.

“Perhaps now it is a little more apparent why I don’t want you to wander off with the only weapon I have at my disposal, hm?”

Henry makes a noncommittal hum, the gears in his head ticking away as he processes this new information.

“Do you really think you won’t be safe in your room?”

“I don’t know.” Hans shakes his head. “I only know that the last time I was left alone in a room here, the door only opened up again when the guards had come to put me in a noose.”

He runs a hand over his face, feeling haggard.

“Even if I locked the door, it wouldn’t do any good. They have the keys. I’d have to barricade myself in here as though I were under siege.”

He catches sight of movement in his periphery. The jingle of buckles and leather as Henry fiddles with something on his armor. And then, that familiar pair of battered gauntlets holding up an offering.

“You can have my sword,” Henry says. Simple. Sincere. Without even the faintest hint of mockery.

Hans’s eyes skim across the sheathed weapon in Henry’s hands. The scabbard is plain, as the blade is too, most likely. Covered in the same dust his squire had brought back with him from the road, but from what he can tell, it seems to be solidly crafted. No one had offered Henry any weapons or armor when their identities had been made known. He had likely scrimped and saved up his own coin for this while Hans was off sulking in the woods. Maybe he had even taken the time to forge it himself. Made and acquired from the sacrifice of his labor and the sweat of his brow.

A sword Henry entrusts his own safety to, freely given over without hesitation.

When Hans looks back up at him again, there is a tightness in his throat.

“I’d rather have you.”

The words leave his mouth before he even realizes what he is saying. Even after he hears them uttered in his own voice, he is not completely certain why he said them. It feels as though they were ripped from his lungs by the same horrible aching bright thing that had seeped into his thoughts like poison while he was waiting in the dungeons to die. The thing that had burned behind his eyelids when he had caught sight of Henry’s face in the crowd, fighting to get to him and tear him down from the gallows with his bare hands. It has no name. He will never give it one. But he knows that the words that it speaks are true.

“What?” Henry asks, equally as dumbfounded.

They are not especially large, but Hans wonders if it would be possible for him to hurl himself out of a window.

“I mean, of course, that your sword arm would be more useful to me than your steel,” Hans rushes to explain, a fresh flush of heat creeping up the back of his neck, “They have set our quarters so far from each other in the castle that if something were to happen to one of us, the other wouldn’t know a thing about it until it was too late.”

“I s’pose that’s true.” Henry takes a moment to consider, finally dropping his hands and holding his sword loosely at his hip. He worries at the injured part of his bottom lip with his teeth as he thinks, and Hans cannot help but stare. “…Do you want me to stand watch?”

“From where?” Hans snorts. “Inside my bedroom?”

Henry shrugs and nods at him.

“Don’t be absurd,” he waves a hand at him dismissively, “We still need to ride out tomorrow, and you won’t be any good to me then if you’re ratarsed from lack of sleep.”

“Then…we could take turns?” Henry suggests, “If you keep yourself awake with concerns about the dangers here, we’ll have the same problem, won’t we? Better for each of us to get some sleep than for one of us not to get any.”

“I… Alright,” Hans agrees helplessly, unable to think of a reason to refuse when he was more or less the one who had asked for this arrangement in the first place. He rolls the phial of holy water in his hands. Uncertain what else there is to say.

“I’ll take the first shift,” Henry tells him as he walks over and leans against the wall near the door, “I had a bit of a sleep at a mill after I cleared out those bandits, so I’m probably a little more rested than you are.”

Hans squints at him doubtfully, but decides not to argue the point.

“Besides,” Henry continues, grinning as he fastens the belt with his scabbard around his hips once more, “I’m sure you don’t want to have to sleep in a bed that reeks like an unwashed turnip-puller.”

Hans nearly chokes on his own tongue. For one wild moment, all he can think of is lying down on a bed that still smells of Henry. Sweat and metal and leather and muck, but beneath that, always a hint of wildflowers, and beneath that, the smell of charcoal smoke and linseed oil. And the smell of his skin that is simply his own. Warm from the road and warm from the sun and warm because that’s who Henry is. Warm, and in his bed.

The phial of holy water drops from his hands and lands on the floor with a dull thunk before rolling listlessly beneath the bedframe. 

Henry’s brow furrows at the sound.

“You alright?”

“I’m fine!” Hans grunts, throwing himself backwards onto the bed and wrapping himself in blankets despite the warmth of the room. Hiding himself from view and from any further thoughts of Henry’s sweat soaking into his sheets. “I was just gagging at the thought of that peasant-stench stinking up my pillows.”

“And I’m sure his lordship smells as sweet as a basket of daisies after a long day’s ride in full armor.”

“Please,” Hans scoffs, “Daisies are far too common. I’ll have you know that I smell like a lovely rose garden. Or perhaps a field of lilies, depending on the day.”

“Aye, and your farts are like a fresh spring breeze.”

“Naturally.”

“That’s funny,” Henry says, and Hans can hear the smirk in his voice, “Because when I was carrying you out of Talmberg, I had your noble backside right next to my face, and let me tell you, it smelled an awful lot like bullsh-”

“Oh, shut up and let me sleep, will you?” Hans interjects, his amusement apparent even as he attempts to smother it with the covers.

“As you say, Sir Capon of Chamomile.”

“You are not going to start calling me that. I forbid it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Sir Hans of the Honeysuckle.”

“I’m going to throttle you in your sleep.”

“You can’t do that; I’m standing watch so that my lord can get his proper rest.”

“No one will be getting any proper rest if you don’t shut that mouth of yours!”

Finally, Henry gives up the game, breaking into a fit of hearty chuckles. He lets out a deep contented sigh, his armor clanking softly as he shifts against the wall. Completely unrepentant.

“Alright, alright, I’ll stop,” he promises, laughter still shaking through his voice, “We’ve an early start tomorrow, after all.”

“Good,” Hans huffs out, putting on a show of being exasperated by rolling onto his side and facing away from the door. “I’m glad to see you’ve learned to quit while you’re ahead.”

“Good night, Hans.”

Hans hums in reply, pressing his smile into his pillow like a secret.

~

Some time later, he jolts awake to a horrendous gurgling sound. Bleary-eyed and only somewhat conscious, his heart is gripped with panic as his gaze flies toward the door to find that his squire has abandoned his post in the night. Except Henry would never. Not willingly. Not without cause.

Demons.

There are no signs of a struggle, but that does not mean anything. Not against the forces of Hell. Henry could have been spirited away in a heartbeat and he would be none the wiser.

Hans swallows thickly. Tries to calculate how much time it would take him to retrieve his sword from his chest. Wonders if there is some way to reach the abandoned phial of holy water that had rolled beneath his bed before the foul fiends get ahold of him, too.

The awful sound repeats itself, low and deep and rattling.

Hans blinks. His mind catching up to the rest of his senses. His mouth curls into a scowl in realization.

Someone or something is snoring at the foot of his bed.

He bravely removes himself from the tangle of sheets on his mattress; employing the same careful footwork he uses when he is out on a hunt. Each step he takes is artfully balanced on the balls of his feet as he softly pads across the hardwood flooring, making hardly a sound. Every movement slow. Every gesture with intention and purpose. Hoping not to spook his suspected quarry from its chosen roost.

Sure enough, Henry is slumped down on the floor near the baseboard, his head lolling in the direction of the now-extinguished fire. His legs are sprawled out in from of him carelessly, as if sleep had caught him unawares and he had simply collapsed in a heap. Hair hopelessly rumpled and waffenrock askew. Mouth slightly agape to release those beastly snores. One hand still resting on the hilt of his sword.

He has not looked so much like a wet-eared no-account village boy in quite some time. Possibly not since he had first burst into the dinning hall at Pirkstein and all but demanded that Sir Radzig let him go after an army of bandits with nothing but his fists to retrieve a sword no one else cared about. Even then, that boy had been eaten up with so much grief. So much rage. It had clouded the heart of who he was. Obscured the shine of him so that all Hans could make out was smoke and ash and the audacity of a peasant who did not know his place.

This is something new. Some previously hidden sweetness in the curve of his cheek, the long sweeping arc of his lashes resting there. Simple and rare and pure. Unguarded from sorrow. Unmarred by suffering. A glimpse of a vulnerable underbelly. 

Hans almost wants to kick him.

“Some bodyguard you turned out to be,” he murmurs under his breath, teasing and affectionate, settling for lightly nudging Henry’s thigh with his toes, “Falling asleep at your post and leaving your lord at the mercy of who knows what.”

“Ma?” Henry’s face scrunches as he makes a groan of protest. “I brought in the firewood yesterday…”

Hans feels a pang in his chest at that. Remembers once again how fresh these wounds are for Henry. How many ghosts he has trailing in his wake. How little he wants to talk about it.

How little Hans has bothered to ask.

He turns his head to look out one of the narrow windows of his room and sees the pale watery light of predawn creeping up over the horizon. The world is still grey at this hour. The damp chill of morning dew still waiting to be chased away by the sun.

It has been far longer than the handful of hours he was promised to fulfill his rest. Henry had not roused him for his turn on watch. Perhaps he had fallen asleep here before he could manage it, but Hans suspects that he had never intended to wake him in the first place. The big lout.

He has never fallen asleep in his armor before, but Hans is certain that it cannot be very comfortable. The stuff is miserable enough to wear while conscious, especially on a hot summer day. His squire undoubtedly going to be sore when he wakes up, and then Hans will have to spend the whole ride out to Nebakov listening to him moan about his aching limbs like a grizzled old man.

He frowns at the thought.

He would rather not endure such unnecessary tribulations. Especially when there is a perfectly serviceable and recently vacated bed on hand to deposit his page on to. Besides which, leaving his dear companion to molder away in uncomfortable repose on the cold hard floor hardly seems like the benevolent and chivalrous thing to do. And Hans is eminently benevolent.

When it suits him.

He takes hold of Henry’s wrist, intending to pull his arm across his shoulders and haul him up onto the bed, but the man in question gasps and recoils on instinct. Groping for his sword, even with his eyes closed. He does not manage to draw is weapon, thankfully, but Hans is forced to scramble away from him none the less.

“It’s just me, Hal.” Hans tells him quietly; breath slightly labored as a note of worry threads into his voice. If Henry’s unconscious mind decides that he is being threatened, it might be worse than begin dragged away by demons. He knows all to well what the man is capable of with a blade in his hand, and Hans only has his chemise and his charm to protect himself with at the moment.

Henry’s brow furrows and he frowns; head still tipped to one side as he considers this information.

“Th’ stew’s gone cold…” He says at last, a woeful lamentation.

“Never mind about the stew,” Hans sighs in aggravation, running a hand through his hair while the other settles on his hip, “Do you want to come sleep in the bed or not?”

Henry lets out a loud noncommittal snore.

After a few moments of consideration, Hans decides that this is enough of a consent to risk a second attempt. He sidles over and reaches out to put his hand on his arm again, tentative this time. When Henry remains impassive, he moves once again to try lifting him from the floor. However, between the loose heavy weight of Henry’s sleeping body and the sharp edges of his armor digging into the flesh of his back and side, Hans quickly comes to the conclusion that this particular maneuver is a lost cause.

He crouches on the floor in front of his page, his face twisted up in a petulant toothless sort of frustration.

“You are being absolutely impossible,” Hans informs him with a hiss.

“Wass’er fuckin’ cabbage,” Henry replies solemnly.

“I can’t believe you’re actually asleep on the floor like this,” Hans accuses him, although he still keeps in voice low, just in case, “I think you’re yanking my pizzle to get back at me about the fight from earlier.”

A bit of drool trickles out of the corner of Henry’s mouth.

Hans scrunches his nose in disgust. Still, it draws his focus back to Henry’s face. The dark circles forming under his eyes. The unkempt stubble starting to thicken along his jaw. He has barely taken a moment to breathe since the Semine wedding, let alone bathe or allow himself any sort of rest. He just keeps pressing forward. Running himself into the ground until someone forces him to stop.

Except, no one had, this time.

Hans should have known better. Hans did know better. He had seen the waning of his squire’s reserves, and pushed for more anyway. Because he had felt alone and abandoned. Because he had been afraid.

Henry must be utterly exhausted.

Hans heaves a defeated sigh, scrubbing briefly at his face before he gets up again and goes back to the bed. He gathers up the blankets and every pillow he can find, and brings them over to Henry’s place in front of the hearth. He builds a sort of nest around him, to the best of his abilities, hoping it will suffice.

He can readily admit that he does not have much experience with tenderness. Not beyond the realms of wooing and sex, which this most certainly is not. He is not a healer, nor a priest. His hands are built for bows and blades. Even so, Henry does not protest when his unpracticed fingers slide up along his neck in order to cradle the back of his head. In fact, he leans into Hans’ arms readily as he carefully lowers him down so that he is lying on the floor. Almost as if he had been expecting it. Hoping for it.

Hans shakes the thought away.

He manages to get the pillows under Henry, and the blankets over him, which is no small feat given that he apparently gains a hundred pounds or so in his sleep and is prone to kicking. Since Hans is a nobleman, who should not even be lowering himself to do this sort of thing, it seems like it should be more than enough in terms of restitution. Possibly even apology.  

Never the less, Hans is a generous master, and so he decides to try and remove some of Henry’s armor as well. The brigandine is a lost cause with him lying flat on his back, and he could not get to the buckles of it without pulling off his waffenrock anyway, but the gauntlets are simple enough to pull from his hands. He attempts to wrest the metal sleeves from Henry’s arms whiel he is at it, but as soon as Hans tugs at one of the straps holding it in place, Henry beings wriggling like a trout and nearly elbows him in the face. Removing his boots would likely not present much of a challenge, but even Hans’ uncanny affection for his page is not quite enough to endure the horror of his nostrils being flooded with the stench of unaired peasant feet that have been stewing in leather for more than a day.

And there is not enough groschen in the world to make Hans reach between Henry’s thighs to undo the buckles of his cuisses while he is passed out on the floor.

Even if he escaped the ordeal without Henry shoving a knee into his guts, God would probably smite him. Or something. He is not going to find out. His ears are burning just from thinking about it.

Hans coughs into his hand.

He sits on the floor across from Henry and leans against the hearth to inspect his handiwork. It is a bit of a half-assed job, all things considered. He did not have much success in getting him out of any of his armor. But at least his friend has somewhere soft to lay his head now. And he tried to help. Henry will see that. He always does.

As if on cue, Henry rolls onto his side, mumbling something into his pillow as his fingers curl into the blanket. His breaths are deep and even. The very picture of contentment.

Hans smiles to himself, all but buzzing with satisfaction.

“Well, I think I’ll go and see if the kitchens in Trosky have anything edible to offer a poor sinner at this hour,” he says brightly, his voice low and warm, “If you are quite done with having your lord wait on you hand and foot, that is.”

He is halfway to his feet when he hears Henry speak again.

“Sorry.”

Hans freezes, panic seizing his muscles, constricting his throat until he cannot breathe. It is one thing to have his squire wake and find that he had given him some pillows and removed his gauntlets. It is quite another if he had actually been awake while Hans had been fruitlessly pawing at him like a witless buffoon.

His gaze snaps to Henry’s face. The deep pools of his eyes remain shuttered. Still asleep, or at least pretending to be.

“There is…” Hans wets his lips, trying to find a scrap of calm to quash the stuttering of his heart. Uncertain if this apology is a response to what he had just said, or some other perceived slight. “There is nothing to be sorry for.”

“M’sorry.” Henry says again, nearly a sob this time. He curls tightly into himself. Knuckles white as he grips the blanket with enough strength to tear. “S’all gone…”

Hans lets out a breath as the dread seeps from his body and some other softer inclination takes its place.

“Nothing that happened to your village was your fault, Henry.”

Henry trembles in response, cowering from unknowable scenes of carnage and loss.

Hans does not know what to do. If it would be better or worse to wake him now. If he should stay and offer comfort, or leave and give him privacy.

He looks again at the despair etched into his friend’s sleeping face.

He should go. Henry would not want him to see him this way. Would not want him to know that there are still things he is running from.

Hans leans over and places a hand lightly on Henry’s shoulder.

“You’re going to be alright.”

Henry shakes his head.

“Wanna go home…”

An unpleasant squeeze in Hans’ chest. Pity and understanding mixed with a vague jealousy. The same bitterness that creeps into the back of his throat when he suspects that Henry might prefer to be where he is not.

“I’ll take you home.” He promises quietly. “Back to Rattay with me. You have my word as a knight.”

Henry lets out a deep shuddering sigh, nearly a whine, and for one terrible moment Hans thinks he might be about to start crying in earnest. That the idea of building a life alongside him is dreadful enough to reduce him to tears. But then the tension seems to ebb out of his limbs like a tide, and he finally relaxes back onto his makeshift bedding on the floor.

“…Hans.”

The word is so quiet, so whisper-soft, that it sounds more like an exhale of breath than a pronouncement of his name.

Another pang to his heart. A different sort, this time. Infinitely more ruinous.

He moves his hand to the crown of Henry’s head, almost as if blessing him. Praying that whatever Grace has spared them thus far continues. That he can fulfill all the promises he had made sooner rather than later.

“Rest well, Henry of Skalitz.”