How @playpausephoto managed to capture Henry like this — worn down, fevered, and still so unguardedly human — I’ll never know. Just grateful she did.
Hearth and Kin – Part III
Where Foxes Say Their Goodnights
—
The wind had picked up.
It carried snow with it — not flakes, not the kind that dance and flutter, but a fine, driving mist that swept across the land like fog. A powdery chill that crept down the collar and under the coat, that bit through seams and sleeves. It covered the road, the fields, the forest, until the horizon itself began to vanish — just a smear of white in the distance.
Hans looked back.
Henry rode a few paces behind him, silent. Hunched low in the saddle, head bowed against the wind, his shoulders stiff and unmoving. His gloves clutched the reins — tightly, maybe too tightly. As if will alone that kept him upright. His body moved with the horse, but his posture was hollow.
Hans pulled on the reins.
His horse slowed, tossing its head once. Henry caught up and stopped beside him — slowly, hesitantly.
Hans studied him.
Henry’s face was pale. Downcast. And when he glanced up at last, his eyes were glassy and far away — as if he were seeing something else entirely. Or nothing at all.
“Henry… what is it?”
Hans’s voice was low. But urgent.
Henry drew a breath. Hesitated.
“I feel ill,” he muttered. “Chills… and I’m dizzy.”
No sooner had he said it than a cough overtook him — sharp, racking. He doubled forward, one hand clutched to his chest, his face twisted in pain.
Hans watched him, throat tight.
He glanced toward the sky.
The dimness had already begun to slide down from the treetops, pooling into the path ahead. What little daylight remained would not last long.
He placed a hand on Henry’s thigh — a gesture, and a command.
“It’s not far to Laurenz,” he said. “We’re going to Foxburrow. We’ll get you warm, love.”
Henry didn’t argue.
Just gave a small nod.
His eyes were still clouded.
Hans let his hand fall away. “Ride ahead of me. I want to keep you in sight.”
Without a word, Henry nudged his horse forward. Hans followed.
And together they rode on — into the falling snow, beneath branches bowed with white, into the hush of a winter afternoon that was already turning toward dusk. Soon they passed through Laurenz.
The short stretch of forest beyond was quiet. Only the crunch of hooves on snow. Only the trees, bent under the weight of white and ice, and the wind threading through the branches like a breath held too long.
Then the trees parted — and the meadow opened before them.
White, unbroken, hushed. Silence hung over it like a veil. And at its heart stood the hunting lodge — still and snow-covered, like an old companion waiting patiently. The yard lay untouched, the house steeped in stillness. A neat stack of firewood rested under the eaves, and by the door, the snow lay uneven — a faded imprint of old sweeping still visible beneath the new drift, like a memory half-buried and half-preserved.
Hans dismounted. Didn’t wait.
In a few quick strides, he was at Henry’s side. He sat unmoving in the saddle, hands still on the reins. Hans reached up, steady and sure, and slipped an arm around his waist. Henry slid down slowly — leaned into him, heavily, without hesitation. As if he’d long since stopped pretending he had strength to spare.
Hans held him.
Waited until he found his footing. Only then did he guide Henry’s arm across his shoulders and begin to lead him, step by step, across the snowy yard to the door.
“I could’ve done it myself…” Henry muttered.
But his voice was low. Heavy. Even he didn’t seem to believe it.
Hans said nothing.
He only opened the door and guided him inside, still supporting his weight.
It was cold within, though not bitter. Dark. Still. Their breath lingered in the air like whispers.
Hans led him straight to the bedchamber.
He sat him down on the edge of the bed, then crossed quickly to the hearth. Tinder, logs, flint — all laid out. His movements were brisk, focused. Sparks caught, wood cracked, and soon the fire began to breathe.
Henry sat still for a while.
Watching him. Then slowly began to strip away the outer layers of his clothing — each motion heavy with fatigue, every gesture dulled by the weight in his limbs.
When Hans turned, the flames had already begun to dance.
“It’ll be warm soon,” he said with a faint smile.
Henry gave a small, tired smile in return. Opened his mouth — perhaps to speak — but a fresh fit of coughing overtook him. It bent him double, forced his hand to his chest.
Hans was at his side in an instant.
He wrapped his arms around him, held him gently until it passed.
“Lie down,” he whispered. “You need rest.”
He helped him undress — until only his underthings remained. Then eased him back onto the bed, covered him with two quilts, and laid a fur across his legs.
Henry curled into the warmth. Looked up at him.
The smile was faint. But real.
Hans leaned down and kissed his forehead.
“I’ll be right back,” he murmured.
Then turned and left for the main room.
Henry closed his eyes.
His breathing was shallow. Careful. As if even the air in his lungs might betray him — as if each breath carried a risk. One false move and pain would strike. The cough would return — sharp, tearing, merciless.
The crackle of firewood. Irregular. Muted. The scent of smoke. A wisp of warmth. Then cold again. Then warmth once more.
A shiver passed through him. His body trembled.
Then came the heat. A dull throb behind his temples — pulsing, steady — then pulling back again, like a tide uncertain of its reach. His head felt heavy. But not the weight of sleep. The weight of fever — that strange, clinging fog that sits behind the eyes and waits.
Silence.
Crackling wood.
A rush of warmth.
A shiver.
Crackling wood.
Silence.
Darkness.
And then—
a touch.
A gentle pressure. A hand on his brow.
He opened his eyes. Slowly. Reluctantly.
Hans was leaning over him.
“You’re burning up, love…” he whispered.
Henry drew a breath — but instead of words, another cough tore through him. His whole body tensed, his eyes clenched shut, his fist pressed hard to his chest as if to hold something in.
Hans’s hand moved to his face. A soft, slow caress.
“I found some dried chamomile,” he said quietly. “Managed to make a brew.”
He eased an arm around him, helped him sit — not fully, just enough to drink.
He held out a cup. Warm, but not scalding. Henry took it in both hands.
Held it first. Let the warmth seep into his fingers, his palms. Felt it — the quiet, steady heat, pressing softly into his skin.
Then brought it to his lips. Sipped. Carefully.
Another sip.
He gave a faint smile.
“Thank you, love…” he whispered.
He drank again — slow, patient sips, until the cup was empty.
Hans sat beside him on the bed, one hand resting on Henry’s thigh. Gentle. Steady.
Henry passed the cup back. Hans took it — already starting to rise, to fetch more — but stopped when he saw the look in Henry’s eyes.
“Stay. Just a little longer.”
Hans nodded. Stayed.
Henry eased himself down again. Drew the quilts around him. One arm slipped out from beneath them — fingers stretching toward Hans.
Hans’s hand found his. Their fingers entwined.
For a moment, Henry only watched him.
Then whispered:
“I’m sorry you have to see me like this…”
Hans smiled softly — but the worry didn’t leave his eyes. He shook his head.
“You silly thing… apologising.”
He took Henry’s hand in both of his. Brushed his thumb gently across the knuckles. Again. And again.
“But I see what you’re doing,” he added, his tone teasing now. “You’ll do anything just to stay in Foxburrow a little longer.”
Henry gave a quiet laugh — which turned into another cough.
He closed his eyes.
Felt the warmth of Hans’s hand. Felt the heat of the chamomile settling in his chest. Felt the slow, soothing touch against his skin.
And slowly… slowly, drifted toward sleep.
But it brought no peace.
It was shallow. Fragile. Henry drifted through it like through thin water — restless, adrift. Now and then, he thought he was waking… but perhaps it was only a dream. Or a dream of waking.
A shiver seized him.
He curled beneath the quilts, folding in on himself. Sweat clung to his skin, yet his teeth still chattered. A bead of moisture slipped past his ear, soaked into the pillow. He turned onto his side. The cold pressed against his back.
And then —
a hand drew the covers higher. Tucked them gently over his shoulders.
Hans’s hand, surely.
No one else.
He slipped back under.
He didn’t know how long it lasted. Moments, perhaps. Or much longer. When he opened his eyes, the room was quiet. In the hearth, the fire had burned low — but new logs had been laid, and the flames were climbing once more. And beside the bed — Hans sat.
Still. Calm.
Henry felt the damp strands of hair sticking to his forehead. He closed his mouth. Opened it again. Then whispered his name.
Hans turned.
“How are you feeling?” His voice was soft.
Henry had to think.
“A bit better…” he said at last, quietly.
Hans gave a small nod.
“It’s night now. You’ve been asleep for hours.”
He reached out and brushed his cheek. With the back of his fingers — as if stroking a shadow.
Henry blinked. “Hours…?” He shook his head faintly. “I could’ve sworn it was just a moment.”
Hans smiled — just a touch. Pulled back the quilt. Ran his hand lightly down the damp shirt clinging to Henry’s chest.
“Take this off,” he said gently, and stood.
He crossed the room, opened the chest. Took out a clean shirt. A strip of linen.
Then came back. Knelt beside him.
And began to dry him gently.
Slowly. Carefully. He said nothing.
Wiped his chest, his arms, his back. Every touch was gentle. Kind.
Then nodded — for Henry to remove the rest.
Henry obeyed. Said nothing. Only lay still, and let him work.
Hans cleaned him with quiet diligence. Then helped him into the fresh shirt. Pulled it down over his head, settled the sleeves, smoothed the cloth over his skin.
Then handed him another cup.
Henry took it. Drank. Slowly. A sip. Then another. Then another.
Until it was gone.
His gaze was calm now. Eyes half-lidded — but warm with thanks.
“You should rest too,” he whispered. “Try to sleep a little…”
Hans looked at him. Thought for a moment.
Then gave a soft smile.
“I’ll be watching you either way.”
He shed his outer layers. Climbed under the quilts beside him, dressed now only in his undershirt.
He lay down behind him — gently. An arm slipped around him, careful, almost hesitant — as if he feared he might do harm.
But Henry pressed close at once. Back to chest. Body to body. Curled into the warmth.
Hans kissed the nape of his neck. Slowly. With eyes closed.
And into the dark — Henry’s whisper. Barely audible. “I love you.”
He drifted off again.
Or rather — slipped back into that strange, uncertain space between sleep and waking. Not truly asleep. Not quite awake. Just floating. Back and forth, just beneath the surface.
At times, he felt heat. So sharp it made even the bed beneath him seem unbearable.
At times, a chill crept through him — not from the air, but from somewhere deeper. That quiet, slow cold that rises from within.
Sometimes he felt the sweat beading on his brow. The pillow damp beneath his cheek. The fabric of his shirt clinging to his back.
And sometimes —
sometimes he felt Hans.
Beside him. Behind him.
A hand reaching across him — gently, without thought. Just fingertips grazing his chest, or brushing lightly down his side.
Other times — when the tremor returned, when a fresh wave of fever shook him — he felt Hans draw close.
From in front, from behind, it didn’t matter. He simply wrapped himself around him. His body like a warm cloak. His breath at Henry’s nape. His hand shifted with him — at times resting against Henry’s chest, at others between his shoulders.
And then —
somewhere in the night — a voice.
Low. Steady. “Soaked through, love… I need to change you.”
Henry barely stirred. He knew the voice. Tried to open his eyes.
Hans was already there. Already lifting him. Carefully. Patiently.
The shirt came off — heavy, sodden. He felt it peel away from his skin.
Then —
dry linen.
It touched him in silence. Hans ran the cloth slowly over him. Across his chest. His back. His arms. Slow. Thorough. No haste. No words.
And then —
a fresh shirt. Soft. Clean.
Hans guided his arms through the sleeves. Pulled it gently down. Smoothed it over him. Covered him again. Draped the fur back over his legs.
A kiss to his temple. So light he barely felt it.
A breath. Warmth. Arms drawing him in once more.
And silence.
He sank into it again.
Without resistance. Henry woke to light.
Blinking, slowly.
Sunlight poured through the window — sharp, bright, glinting off snow. The room was bathed in white and golden hues. A fine powder had settled on the outer sill, and the windowpanes shimmered with reflected light.
He turned his head.
Fever had made the motion sluggish — dragging behind like something tethered. His mind followed the movement with a delay, as if each thought took longer to reach him. Everything felt heavier. Slower.
He was alone in the bed.
But from the other room came quiet sounds. The soft creak of footsteps. The knock of wood. The rustle of movement.
He lay still a while longer. Let his eyes follow the ceiling beams.
Then pushed himself upright. Slowly. Braced a hand against the mattress. Waited for the spinning to pass.
That was when the door opened.
Hans stood on the threshold. There was a flicker of worry in his gaze — but the moment he saw Henry sitting up, something in his face softened.
“Well, well,” he said with a smile. “Look who’s awake.”
Henry gave a faint smile in return.
Hans stepped forward and embraced him — gently, briefly. Just enough to feel him there.
“You’re still warm,” he murmured.
Henry nodded. Then glanced down, unsure.
“I… I need to step outside.” His voice softened. “You know… just—” He gave a small shrug, not quite meeting Hans’s eyes. “Just for a moment.”
Hans didn’t flinch. He helped him into his boots, draped a cloak over his shoulders, steadied him with a hand.
Henry stood. Wobbled. But managed the few steps to the door.
Outside, the sun dazzled him.
He squinted.
The day was bright, brilliant. Sunlight burned on the fresh snow, dazzling in its sweep. The white stretched out around them in quiet splendor, and overhead — a sky of perfect, crystalline blue.
Hans stayed at the door. Waiting.
After a little while, Henry returned — shivering from the cold.
Hans didn’t speak. He brought him inside again, led him into the main room, and eased him down by the hearth.
The fire was burning once more. Its flames steady, subdued.
Hans handed him a cup.
“More of the brew,” he said. “But that was the last of the chamomile.”
Henry nodded. Took a sip. The warmth lingered on his tongue.
As he drank, Hans placed a bowl before him.
Millet porridge. With dried fruit.
Henry glanced up. Nodded. “Thank you.”
But then only dipped the spoon in lightly. Pushed the porridge around the bowl. Tried a single bite.
Then shook his head.
“I don’t feel like eating at all…”
Hans let out a quiet sigh. He reached out and touched his shoulder.
“Do you want to lie down again?”
Henry nodded.
Hans helped him to his feet. Guided him gently back into the bedroom, settled him under the quilts. Covered him.
Then sat beside him once more.
Henry closed his eyes.
And felt —
Hans’s hand, resting over the quilt. Moving slowly. Along his thigh. Back… and forth. Back… and forth.
Soft.
Wordless.
Until drowsiness claimed him again.
He slept more peacefully this time.
Still lightly, but the trembling had eased. Now and then, he thought he heard something. A click. A distant voice. Hoofbeats, maybe — or was that just a dream?
He didn’t stir. Just breathed. Lay still. And for the first time in what felt like an age, sleep began to give something back. Not all. But something.
And then —
after a while, he opened his eyes.
Hans was sitting beside the bed.
Reading. Calm.
Henry shifted his hand slightly. Brushed a knuckle across Hans’s leg — a light, almost absent touch.
Hans looked up. Smiled. Reached over and stroked his arm.
“Feeling better?” he asked quietly.
Henry nodded. “That sleep… I needed it.”
Hans smiled again.
“You were out for quite a while. It’s afternoon already.”
Henry glanced around — and only then noticed how the light had changed. It was softer now. Mellow. The sun had begun to lower, painting the walls in gold.
“We had a visitor,” Hans said after a moment.
Henry raised an eyebrow.
“Pavel stopped by,” Hans explained. “He comes regularly. Just to check that everything’s as it should be.” He paused. “We didn’t want to wake you.”
Henry frowned slightly. “You could have.”
He pushed himself up, resting on his elbows.
Hans said nothing — just placed a hand on his shoulder. Firm, but gentle.
“The sleep did you more good,” he said plainly.
Then let his hand fall away. Slowly.
“Pavel said he’d try to bring something from Godwin. A remedy, or herbs — for the fever, the cough.”
Henry shifted beneath the covers.
“You shouldn’t have sent him running back and forth.”
Hans looked at him.
“I didn’t,” he said. “He offered.”
And his hand came up again, this time to Henry’s face. A soft touch. The full of his palm.
“You still have a fever,” he murmured, brows drawn.
He stood there for a moment, thoughtful. Then leaned in a little closer.
“Just a moment.”
He vanished through the doorway.
Henry remained where he was. Closed his eyes — though he didn’t sleep. Just felt the quiet around him. The pressure in his forehead. The warmth rolling slow beneath his skin.
After a while, he heard footsteps.
Hans returned, holding a folded cloth that dripped faintly onto the floor.
“Snow,” he said simply.
He stepped close and placed it carefully on Henry’s brow.
Henry gave a small hiss through his teeth. The cold bit — but not harshly. Just a wave, swift and clean, that washed through and faded.
He stayed still.
And soon, already, it was helping. The fever didn’t vanish, but it began to retreat — enough to breathe easier.
Hans watched him in silence for a while.
“I asked Pavel about Jitka,” he said.
Henry cracked an eye open and looked at him — questioning.
“Said she’s putting on a brave face,” Hans went on. “But he’s not convinced.”
Henry let out a quiet sigh.
They sat in stillness for a time.
Then Hans added, as if just remembering:
“He also said Zizka and Katherine are back at Pirkstein.”
Henry gave a faint smile.
“Well, that should liven things up.”
Hans smiled too. Then leaned closer, adjusted the cloth on his forehead.
“Did it help?” he asked.
Henry nodded. “Much better.”
Hans stroked his hand. His thumb slow and warm against the skin.
They were quiet for a moment.
Then Henry hesitated — thinking. Propped himself up a little.
“I think… I could eat something.”
Hans looked at him — and his face lit up.
“That’s the best news I’ve had all day.”
Then gave a small, apologetic smile. Shrugged.
“There’s not much here. Just the porridge. But tomorrow morning I’ll go out. See what I can hunt.”
Henry smiled.
“The porridge will do just fine.” After a while, they sat together at the table in the main room. Henry, seated with his back to the hearth, had a quilt draped over his shoulders and a bowl before him. He ate slowly, spoon by spoon, without a sound. The millet porridge no longer carried the scent of the morning’s fire — but it was still good, still nourishing.
Hans sat opposite, watching him with a faint smile.
After a few moments, Henry paused and looked up.
“It’s really very good.”
Hans gave a small breath of laughter through his nose — more air than sound.
“You’re such a flatterer,” he murmured.
Henry shook his head. “No. I mean it.”
Hans reached across the table and touched his arm, just briefly.
“If you’re eating… that’s all that matters.”
He rolled his neck, easing a knot of tension. “I saw some hare tracks out in the snow. If I’m lucky, I’ll bring one in tomorrow. We’ll have a proper supper.”
Henry looked up at him.
“During Advent fast?”
Hans frowned slightly.
“Nothing gives you strength like game. Fast or no fast.”
Henry said nothing. He only nodded, quietly.
Hans rose, crossed to the shelves, and began to search through the stores. He rummaged for a while, then gave a slow shake of the head.
“No more herbs,” he muttered. “Not a single sprig. Let’s hope Pavel brings something back tomorrow — as promised.”
Just then, the sound of hooves outside. Soft, muted. Followed by a light knock at the door.
Hans turned, crossed the room, and opened it.
Pavel stood on the threshold. His cheeks flushed red from the cold and the ride, breath rising in misted puffs, a linen pouch clutched in his hand.
Hans looked momentarily surprised, but stepped aside at once.
“Come in.”
Pavel entered and gave a quick shake of his shoulders — though he didn’t remove anything. Henry gave him a small smile and a nod.
“I’m glad to see you up again, sir,” Pavel said.
He passed the pouch to Hans.
“Father Godwin sent these. A few vials — for the fever. And the cough.”
Hans took it and nodded. “Thank you, Pavel.”
Then glanced at him. “I didn’t think you’d be back today.”
Pavel lowered his eyes slightly. “I thought it best not to wait.”
Henry stood, still slow on his feet.
“Won’t you stay a little?” he asked. “Warm yourself, at least.”
Pavel shook his head. “I’ll ride straight back. I’d rather reach Rattay before nightfall.”
Henry met his gaze.
“Thank you.”
Pavel gave a small wave of the hand. “It was nothing.”
He was already turning back to the door — then paused.
“Ah — almost forgot,” he said. “Lady Jitka sends her regards to you both. She says she’s looking forward to seeing you… but more importantly, that Lord Henry must recover properly before setting out anywhere.”
He turned to Hans.
“And she said there’s something she needs to tell you. Something important.”
Hans’s brow furrowed slightly.
“Something important? About what?”
Pavel shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Hans exhaled softly and gave a small nod.
“All right. Thank you.”
“And thank Godwin for us, will you?” he added. “And… give our regards to Lady Jitka.”
He glanced at Henry. “From both of us.”
Pavel gave a quick nod. “I will.”
Hans saw him to the door, offered a quiet farewell, and watched him ride off into the snow.
Then he turned back into the room and looked at Henry.
Henry gave a faint shrug.
“I doubt I’ll ever get used to Pavel calling me ‘sir’. Or ‘lord’,” he muttered.
Hans only smiled. He uncorked one of the vials, took a cautious sniff, and handed it over.
“Down the hatch.”
Henry tipped it back and winced.
“Foul stuff,” he muttered, making a face. “Let’s hope it does its work.”
Hans smiled. He slipped an arm around his waist and kissed him on the cheek — then leaned back a little, studying him closely.
He laid the back of his hand against Henry’s face.
“You’re still fevered…” he said softly.
“But better,” Henry replied. Calm. Certain. “I am.”
Hans nodded. “Even so. You should lie down again.”
Henry gave him a sidelong glance. His smile was faint — half-feigned.
“As you command.”
He leaned in, kissed him on the mouth — and let his hand wander, bold and brief, across Hans’s backside.
Hans gave a short snort.
“Well. That confirms it.”
“Told you,” Henry murmured.
“Come on, then.” A little while later, Henry was back in bed. Settled more comfortably than before, buried beneath the quilts. Hans lay beside him — not under the covers, but atop them, turned onto his side, one elbow propping up his head. His other hand rested lightly on Henry’s chest. Not claiming. Simply there.
“I’m glad we know everything’s all right at Pirkstein. At least we don’t have to sit here wondering whether we were wrong to stay those few extra days,” he said after a while.
He brushed his knuckles along Henry’s cheek.
“You can rest now. Truly rest.”
Henry looked at him. “And Jitka? That ‘important news’ of hers?”
Hans gave a small shrug, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“If it couldn’t wait, she’d have sent word straight away. Or come herself. But if she’s saying you should get well first and then come… it can’t be that urgent.”
Henry considered this, then nodded.
“Makes sense.”
He looked at him again — and this time, the look lingered. He reached out and pulled Hans a little closer, then kissed him. Slowly. Not with hunger — but with a quiet tenderness that didn’t need to rush.
Hans’s hand moved to his side. Gliding in that steady, familiar rhythm known only to those who have loved each other long enough to remember every inch of skin by memory — even in sleep.
When their lips finally parted, Hans opened his eyes.
“You ought to take it easy,” he murmured, almost amused.
Henry gave a crooked little smirk.
“Can’t hurt, might help.”
Hans gave a small shake of the head — barely a movement.
And then simply looked at him.
A faint smile still on his lips, but his eyes had drifted slightly — not away from Henry, but inward, as if some thought had carried him a step beyond the present moment.
Henry’s own smile faltered, just a little.
“What is it?” he asked softly.
Hans drew a breath. For a heartbeat, it seemed he meant to answer — but then he hesitated. Fell quiet. And in the end, only shook his head.
“Nothing,” he said with a smile. Then leaned in and kissed his forehead.
“I’ll fetch some more wood.”
Henry watched him go.
For a moment, the room held its stillness. Then the door opened again — and Hans returned, arms full of firewood. He crossed to the hearth, fed a few logs to the flames, stacked the rest neatly beside it.
“It’s properly freezing out again now the dark’s settled in,” he muttered, brushing off his hands.
Then he straightened, turned — and looked toward Henry with that familiar flicker in his eyes. A hint of something playful at the corners of his mouth.
“Any room left for warming up?” he asked.
Henry’s answer was wordless. Just a soft smile, and a quiet shift on the mattress — an invitation.
Hans undressed slowly, left his clothes folded aside, and slipped in beside him.
They lay on their sides, facing one another. Breathing the same air.
Their hands found each other on their own — touching backs, shoulders, temples. Palm to palm. Body to body.
Henry touched his nose gently to Hans’s. Just a light brush.
Hans smiled, still watching him.
They looked at one another for a while. Perhaps much longer than they realised.
Then Hans drew him a little closer — and kissed him. Softly. Without hurry.
“Sleep well,” he whispered.
Henry answered with a small kiss in return. Then nestled against him — beneath his chin, into his warmth.
Hans wrapped his arms around him.
And simply felt.
Henry’s breathing as it slowed. The weight of his body settling. The small twitches of muscle — fleeting, almost imperceptible.
Hans smiled faintly to himself.
And sleep came for him, too.
Quiet. Safe. Shared. Henry slept deeply. Truly, solidly. The kind of sleep that holds the whole body — deep, anchoring. So deep he didn’t stir when Hans slipped out of bed sometime in the small hours.
For a while, Hans simply sat at the edge. Still. Silent. Awake. His gaze rested on Henry’s face — calm and untroubled, breath slow and even, lips parted slightly. He was snoring, just barely. A quiet sound, barely more than breath.
Hans rose.
Barefoot, he crossed the chamber without a sound. Pulled on his boots. Threw a cloak over his shoulders. Then eased the door closed behind him and stepped through the main room, where the hearth had burned down to a low bed of embers.
Outside, the world was silent.
He paused a few paces from the door.
Breathed in — deeply.
The air was sharp. Clean. Full of night. It woke his eyes, straightened his back, stretched all the way down into his belly.
He lifted his head.
The stars hung low — so low it felt as though he might reach them, just by stretching. Raise a hand — maybe rise on his toes. And he could graze one with his fingertips.
The thought made him smile.
His eyes drifted toward the dark wall of forest at the meadow’s edge.
Stillness.
Perhaps the whole world is asleep, he thought.
He crouched. Scooped a handful of snow. Held it until he felt it melt — thin streams of water slipping between his fingers. He rubbed the rest between his palms.
Then ran his hands over his face. Exhaled.
His breath rose in misty curls, fading fast. He watched them disappear.
Then turned.
Walked slowly toward the forge. Toward the familiar lean-to beside it. Pulled back the canvas curtain.
The bathing tub stood where it always had.
Silent. Empty.
He reached out and let his hand rest on the rim. The wood was cold. Rough. Real.
He smiled again — not for the world, not for memory — just for himself.
Then turned and made his way back.
The house was quiet. The bedchamber warm.
Henry hadn’t moved. Still asleep, deeply, wrapped up to the shoulders. His face was turned toward him. Hair tousled across the pillow.
Hans set aside the cloak. The boots. Slipped back under the quilts.
He curled in close.
An arm around him — a quiet, steady hold.
Henry muttered something in his sleep. A word, maybe. Or just a sound.
Hans pressed a kiss into his hair.
Closed his eyes.
And let himself be soothed again — by the weight of the quilts. The scent of him. The warmth they shared.
Sleep found him once more. Unfaltering. Certain. When the morning came — soft and grey, all quiet hues of ash and pearl — Henry hovered on the edge of sleep.
Half-dreaming. Half awake. His thoughts drifted like leaves across a pond — slow, unhurried, barely rippling the surface.
Something had changed.
He felt… well. Truly so. Rested in a way that reached beneath the skin.
And he stayed there, in that liminal space, unwilling to let it go just yet. Letting himself be cradled in the hush between night and day, between dream and waking.
He thought he could hear the creak of beams above. The tap of tiny claws on the sill outside. The hushed world beyond the walls — while within, the house still breathed the remnants of night.
On his bare shoulder lay the warmth of breath.
Hans’s breath. Even, gentle — each rise and fall a small comfort that smoothed Henry back toward peace.
He was nearly asleep again—
Then movement.
Hans stirred beside him, sat up.
Before opening his eyes, Henry’s arm found him — palm resting on the curve of his back, warm and bare.
“Where are you going, love?” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.
Hans bent to him. His lips brushed Henry’s cheek — a whisper of a kiss.
Henry opened his eyes.
Hans’s face was close, hair in disarray, smiling faintly.
“I’m going after that hare I promised,” he said softly.
Henry frowned a little, drew him back with both arms. “It doesn’t have to be now,” he muttered.
Hans let himself be pulled down again. Lay still beside him.
They stayed that way — half awake, half lost in warmth. Hands strayed idly over skin; a breath, a quiet laugh, a occasional kiss that asked for nothing. Fingertips on hips, on shoulders. The hush of morning wrapped about them like another quilt.
“How do you feel?” Hans asked at last.
Henry listened to his own body for a moment. “The best I’ve felt in days,” he said. “Truly.”
A smile spread across Hans’s face — open, unguarded. It carried that bright, honest joy Henry would always remember.
“Well then,” he said, “I should be on my way.”
Henry looked at him. “Shall I come?”
Hans shook his head. “Rest a little longer. Even strength needs its peace.”
He sat at the edge of the bed. Henry rose too — naked, unhurried, unashamed, with the calm of one long accustomed to such mornings. He could more easily recall the few days they’d spent apart than the many they’d shared.
Hans watched him for a while, thoughtful. Then the corner of his mouth lifted.
“When you’re rested,” he said, “you might see to the hare once I bring it back. I may be the better hunter — but surely you’ve the better hand at the hearth.”
Henry smiled. Stepped close, and with the faintest touch of mischief, gave him a gentle pat.
“Then it’s settled,” he said. Hans stood at the threshold. Wrapped warm, though lightly. The bow rested across his back, the dagger at his hip. His boots were firm on the wooden floor, ready.
Henry stepped up beside him.
He reached out and let his fingers run along the drawn string — taut, familiar beneath his touch.
“It’ll need changing soon,” he murmured.
Hans smiled. Bent down and brushed his lips against his.
“Then see to it later, if you like.”
He took in a breath, opened the door — and a breath of cold swept in like water.
“I won’t be long.”
Then he was gone, stepping into the pale hush of morning.
Henry stood for a moment longer.
His eyes moved slowly across the room — not idly, but with the quiet precision of someone taking stock. As if his thoughts were arranging themselves into shape. As if the day ahead was already beginning to take form.
He turned and made his way back into the bedchamber.
The bed still held its shape. Still held its warmth. A faint hollow where Hans had lain.
Henry reached for the quilts. He folded them over, pressed down the creases.
Adjusted the furs with quiet care — laying them flat, tucking them in. Plumped the pillows.
His hands moved in quiet rhythm — practised, unthinking. But in each motion was a steadiness that spoke of something returning.
The body regathering itself. Breath finding its own rhythm again.
At the hearth, he crouched to lay on a few fresh logs. Watched the fire draw them in — the small flames licking, then catching, then rising.
Then he went to the chest.
Lifted the lid. Shifted through cloth and linen, through old things that held the scent of pine and iron. Some he folded anew, others he laid aside. Not seeking anything. Just tending to things.
After a moment, he stood. Paused. Then reached for his coat, laced his boots, and stepped outside.
The day received him in stillness.
The sun had drawn back. No gold — only a faint silver leaking through the gauze of low, drifting cloud. The snow shone whiter for it. The air hung soft. The world was drawn in quiet lines.
Henry walked to the stable.
He checked the horses. Ran a hand down a warm neck. Fed them hay from his arms. Listened to the muffled stamp of hooves, the breath-clouds rising in rhythm. Small, steady sounds.
Then he took up the broom.
Swept clear the stoop. The path to the stable. Another to the forge. A last one to the far gate. His breath came in soft clouds, and the crunch of his boots was the only voice the snow gave back.
When he stepped inside again, the house had kept its hush.
He moved through the pantry. Weighed the pouches, fingered the cloth. In one, his hand closed around a small handful of juniper berries.
He smiled.
Set them gently aside.
Then he hesitated.
And turned back to the bed.
Coat off. Boots undone. He sank down into the lingering warmth. Lay back, his hands beneath his head.
Closed his eyes.
Listened to the hush of fire. Felt the breath of smoke in the rafters. The heat curling through the room like something living.
And without knowing when, he drifted.
He had nearly fallen asleep—
When—
A sharp crack. The door to the main room flung open.
Footsteps—two, three, quick strides. Then more. Heavy. Urgent. The sound of someone moving with purpose. With fear.
Henry sat up just as the bedroom door burst open.
Hans stood in the doorway.
His breath ragged, cheeks flushed with cold, wind-tangled hair falling over his brow. But it was the look in his eyes that stilled the air—something restless beneath, edged with a darker weight.
“Was someone here?”
His voice was tight — brittle with urgency, barely holding back.
Henry shook his head. “No… no one. Why?” He was already rising.
Hans turned without reply, striding back through the house, out into the light of day. As Henry followed, his glance caught on the table—a hare, freshly taken, left lying there. But he did not stop.
Outside, the world was pale and still.
Hans stood just beyond the doorway. His eyes swept the trees, the shadows — scanning for the slightest stir. Searching. Taut. Distant.
“What is it?” Henry’s voice was low, but steady.
Hans said nothing at first. He simply stared into the silence. Then, at last, a breath—deep, shuddering.
He turned.
“I’m sorry… I— I don’t know,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Perhaps I… I don’t know.”
They stepped back inside. The door closed behind them. The fire murmured in the hearth.
Henry moved close, lifting his hands to Hans’s face. Held it gently. Looked into his eyes.
“What happened?” The question was quiet. But firm. Unyielding.
Hans swallowed. His gaze dropped to the hare.
“I’d gone as far as Squirnow road. I was on my way back, just cutting across the ridge, when I heard riders—horses. I ducked behind the brush.”
A pause.
“There was a group. Passing through.”
Henry shrugged slightly. “That’s not so rare.”
Hans held his gaze.
“One of them,” he said softly, “I’m almost certain it was Hanush.”
He exhaled. “I thought—for a moment—I thought they were coming here.”
The words barely rose above a whisper.
Henry stepped closer, wrapped his arms around him. Held him. A palm pressed to his back, slow and calming.
“No one came, love…” His voice was steady now. Grounded. “And even if it was Hanush—he may have only been passing through.”
Hans nodded once. Just once.
They sat, side by side, on the bench near the table. Hans took Henry’s hand and wrapped his own around it, as if it steadied him.
Then, after a while—
“Since the day he tried to have you taken to Polna… I’ve had this fear. That he’ll try something again.”
Henry said nothing. His fingers rested easily inside Hans’s. Warm. Alive.
“I only hope Radzig’s warning was enough,” he said at last.
Hans looked up at him. There was a shadow in his eyes.
“For now. Perhaps.”
A beat.
“I don’t think he’d dare to threaten you directly, Henry. Not anymore. Not now that you’re a lord.”
Their eyes met.
“But—” The word caught.
“But?” Henry’s tone was calm. Attentive.
Hans looked down, let out a breath.
“I fear he might come at you through me.”
His thumb moved softly across Henry’s hand.
“He knows how far you’d go to keep me safe. What you’d sacrifice. How quickly you’d yield—if it were me he put in harm’s way.”
A pause.
“As he did before… when he forced us apart.”
Henry didn’t speak. Only watched him.
Then Hans lifted his gaze.
“He knows, Henry. That I am your weakness.”
Silence.
Then Henry shook his head. Firmly.
“You’re not my weakness, Jendo.”
He glanced at him. Didn’t look away.
“You’re the one who keeps me steady.”
He gave a soft snort.
“Christ, Hans… You’re the only reason I keep going — every day.”
Their eyes held.
Then Henry reached forward and pulled him close. Tightly. Fiercely.
“I love you,” he whispered into his ear.
A pause.
“And Hanush… can fuck off.”
Hans let out a soft laugh against his shoulder.
Henry glanced over at the hare.
“I’ll make us something good,” he said. “I even found some juniper berries.”
He smiled.
Hans looked at him—and kissed him. As time passed, the house was filled with the scent of game and juniper. A thick, savoury fragrance rose from the pot and soaked through the walls, clinging to the beams and rafters, warming the air like a held embrace.
They sat together at the table. Two bowls before them, steam curling slowly upward — hare stew, rich and hearty, disappearing spoon by spoon.
When Hans finished, he leaned back with a contented sigh, stretching like a cat in the sun.
“That was perfect,” he murmured, his voice low with comfort.
Henry smiled faintly. Lowered his gaze to the bowl. Then lifted it again, toward Hans.
His eyes drifted past him — toward the window.
“It’s snowing again,” he said, half to himself. And after a pause, a soft laugh escaped him. “I’d just cleared the path.”
They stepped outside.
Just beyond the threshold, they paused. Snow was falling — slow, soundless, tender — already dusting the paths Henry had swept only hours before.
Hans came up behind him, wrapped both arms around his waist, chest pressed to his back.
Together they stood and watched as the world softened, paled, and turned quiet once more.
“Do you remember…” Henry began softly, “…the first time you brought me here?”
Hans smiled beside his ear.
Henry was quiet for a moment. “I felt so out of place, then. Like I didn’t belong.”
Hans kissed the curve of his neck.
“I remember,” he said. “I remember it well.”
Henry fell silent again.
“And now… now I don’t think there’s anywhere I feel more at home than right here.”
He turned in Hans’s arms, facing him.
“I mean… as long as you’re here with me.”
Hans kissed him gently. Smiled.
Then, something caught his eye.
He nodded toward the gate — just slightly, without a word.
There, in the falling dusk, a fox nosed through the snow. Two half-grown cubs trailed behind her, scruffy and lean. She sniffed the air, pawed at the ground.
Then, as if sensing them, she stilled. Lifted her head.
For a heartbeat, she watched them.
Then came a sharp yap — and all three vanished into the underbrush, swallowed by the twilight trees.
Hans and Henry exchanged a glance. A quiet breath of laughter passed between them — nothing more than a stir of air. Then silence again.
Hans inhaled slowly.
“You know what’s strange?” he murmured.
A pause.
“After only a few days… I already felt at home in our chamber in Klokotsch.”
He breathed out, slowly. His eyes wandered past Henry, toward the trees beyond the snow.
“Strange, isn’t it? That Rattay — the place I was born, the place that was always supposed to be my home — feels the least like home now.”
Henry drew him in. Held him tightly. Said nothing.
The silence between them was soft.
Then, after a while—
“For me,” Henry said quietly, “home is anywhere the two of us are.”
He leaned back just a little. Met Hans’s eyes.
Smiled.
“And wherever we choose to make it… that’s ours.”
