Chapter Text
The bow found Henry’s hands like a revenant. Its yew belly bore the same notch from past—the groove where his arrow had shattered Hans’ pride and kindled something darker, sweeter.
“And it was immediately clear to me,” Dawn bled through eastern gate, gilding Hans’ smirk, “That that bow should go to none of them than you.”
Henry traced the grip, still warm from Hans’ palms. The wood remembered what men forgot: a lordling’s petulant flush at being bested, the way he’d snapped, “What are you grinning about, boy?” before storming off. But Henry remembered the aftermath—Hans returning at dusk, wine-sloshed and grinning, pressing the bow into his chest. “Teach me.”
Now, Hans leaned close. His breath smelled of last night’s ale and tomorrow’s trouble. “Shoot some deer and celebrate with wine! Like we used to do back home!”
Thwack.
Memory struck—an arrow splitting another in the straw target, Hans’ choked gasp. “Don’t worry your mangy head about me, peasant. ” he’d spat. Then, quieter: “We’ll see each other again soon enough.”
Henry hefted the stolen bow. The string hummed a truth he’d denied since Skalitz burned: this was never about archery.
Hans paused at the corridor. “Coming?”
The old yew trembled in Henry’s grip. Some bonds, once strung, could never be un-nocked.