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The ground moved easily as he cut into it with the spade.
The seemingly never-ending rain had softened the earth until it was nothing more than mud and rock, boots sinking where he stood.
The water was soaking him to the bone, making gripping the tool difficult. The biting cold wind accompanying it was cutting his skin into ribbons. In the distance, the sky thundered so loud it sounded like the angels were using hand canons in heaven.
Nothing.
That was all Erik could feel right now.
Nothing.
His chest was an endless, empty cavern devoid of light or warmth, and he had a singular goal on his mind.
Bury Istvan, bury his...
Last night the storm had rapidly gotten a lot worse, which had left Erik with no choice but to turn back towards Trosky castle. He'd much rather spend the night in his lord's arms than be left a victim to the elements or to sleep in some rundown inn.
When he returned, however, chaos had erupted.
The prisoners had escaped, vanishing into the night like they had never been here to begin with. Worst of all, Istvan was missing. They had searched all the rooms, but nobody in the castle had seen him since he retired for the night. The quarters he had been staying in had been empty when the soldiers came to inform him of what had transpired.
The only thing out of place was a smashed window.
Erik had feared the worst.
Zizka must have taken Istvan randsom just like they had planned to do with that Capon. Sigismund would have likely paid a handsome sum to have him released, and God knows these vermin would have needed every groschen if they didn't want to be slaughtered in the streets by their king's superior force.
Erik hadn't planned to wait that long.
As soon as the storm lessened, he would head out and hunt them down; after enduring hours of torture and with the weather outside, there was no way they could have made it very far. He would catch up with them and make them pay for thinking they could separate him from his lord.
The morning came and the storm calmed.
A guard had approached him on the way to the stables as he was about to start his search.
One of the soldiers found Istvan.
What was left of him.
That broken window…
The guard had asked him for further orders, such as whether they should contact the castle's priest and the local grave digger to prepare a proper burial for the noble. The fact that he and the Hungarian were close was an open secret. Perhaps not the full extent of that closeness, but enough that to everyone in the castle, it was not even a question that he should be the one to decide on what to do with the lord.
Erik had told him to get lost, and he would handle the matter himself. The thought of anybody looking at Istvan, much less getting their disgusting hands on him, was too much. The priest wouldn't be needed either; neither of them was destined for heaven anyway.
So, he followed the man's direction and lying beneath the tower lying in a puddle of his own blood and gore among the grass and dirt was Istvan.
His lord, his mentor, his lover…
And all he could feel was nothing. His eyes remained dry, breathing steady and hands still. The younger man looked at the mutilated remains of all he ever held dear and went to the task.
Carefully, he wrapped Istvan into a few sheets of linen, tying them together with ropes. The fabric was quickly stained red, but he paid it no mind, grabbing a shovel and preparing to dig the grave.
If he could, Erik would have liked to bury him back in Hungary or somewhere important for them, where they indulged in themselves and made lovely memories. He could name over a dozen places where he would have preferred to lay his lover to rest, not next to some backwater bohemian castle in the middle of nowhere. But after what's been done to Istvan, that wouldn't have been possible, so he had to work with what he had.
Once the pit was deep enough, he picked up his lord's body and gently placed him down before shovelling the dirt back over.
It wasn't until the last pile had been moved and smoothed over, just standing before some unremarkable piece of ground, with Istvan's blood staining his hands, that the last piece finally slotted into place.
The reality of the situation hit him like a war hammer to the throat.
Istvan was dead.
Gone.
He would never again hear his voice, have those brown eyes gaze upon him with pride, feel his touch and come alive in his embrace.
Gone.
The air, which had previously only been filled by the sound of rain and thunder, now carried the sound of a loud roaring howl.
Erik's legs gave out, and he hit the ground with a heavy thud.
On his hands and knees, he crawled forward until he was lying on top of the patch of dirt that separated him from what used to be Istvan.
He screamed for seconds or hours until his voice gave out, and his lungs felt as if they were on fire. Hot tears were streaming down his face.
Anyone hearing him must have thought he was mad or possessed. Erik didn't care. He let them think whatever they wanted; it didn't matter; nothing mattered anymore. This was a nightmare.
Waves of pain were coursing through his body as if the space his lord had left behind was tearing him apart from the inside; in an attempt to alleviate his pain, Erik started pounding the ground below until his hand was bleeding.
All he wanted to do was claw his way through the layers of dirt, wrap himself around Istvan and finally die. Erik felt like he would combust with all grief and regret flooding him.
If only he had waited until the morning to depart on his mission.
He could have been there. Could have protected him.
Then Istvan would still be here.
Something else was rising to the surface within him, filling the emptiness with molten fire.
Anger.
Radzigs bastard must be behind this. No one else would be this dumb.
That damned dog must have finally come to reclaim that ugly sword he kept yelling about.
All of Istvan's life and everything he was snuffed out over some shitty piece of metal.
Erik dragged himself up until he was standing again. His fists were balled at his sides so hard that his knuckles popped, and his bones creaked.
But that vermin didn't just kill Istvan; he threw him out a window, leaving his body bent and broken as it burst open on the sharp rocks. If he hadn't been wearing his distinct clothes, nobody would have been able to recognize him. It must have only taken a moment before his lover hit the ground, but Erik couldn't help wondering if he was scared in his final moments.
Were Istvans' last thoughts about his dear boy right before his skull broke apart.
An iron determination replaced his need to join his lord in the afterlife.
If God had different plans for them, if their roles had been reversed, Istvan would not have let the grief drown him. The older man would do anything to see him avenged, so it was only right that Erik did the same to honour Istvan.
Though he wouldn't just kill Radzig's bastard. No, that would be too easy. That man had taken everything from him, so Erik would return the favor.
He would find out what was important to the man, what he loved and held dear.
Then one after the other he would destroy everything, making sure there was nothing left but blood, ruins and scorched earth. All while making sure the man knew that it was all his fault.
Only then, after making sure the bastard would forever curse the day Radzig decided to bed his whore mother, would he finally kill him.
Watching the blood and life drain out of Henry of Skalitz would be the only joy Erik would have left in this life. After that was done, perhaps he would join his lord.
In the end, he hoped wherever Istvan was, he would be proud of him.
There was no time to waste.
Erik finished the grave with grim determination. He had moved some of the rocks over the patch of dirt so that animals or filthy vagabonds would not try and dig it back up. The Hungarian's blood still clung to the stone like a curse despite the water cascading around them.
He gently placed a few flowers on it, and together with a makeshift wooden cross, he marked the spot.
Empty gestures, Istvan had not cared for flowers, and he was sure God had abandoned them for their sins anyway; the only thing left for them was hell, but doing these things comforted Erik in a way.
And it was just him left after all.
"Funerals are simply for the living," an old soldier had once told him.
Erik noticed something in the grass as he began to take his leave.
Istvans chaperone. He had wondered where it was.
He gently picked it up as if it were a fragile piece of glass or a precious jewel and looked at it, letting his fingers run over the soft fabric. Raising it to his face, he inhaled the scents clinging to it.
It smelled like blood and moist grass, but underneath it all was still Istvan's unmistakable scent.
For just a moment, he allowed himself to linger.
Turning back to the grave, Erik pressed the chaperone to his heart one last time before leaving it hanging on the cross.
Touching it burnt him and made his heart feel like it was filled with stones, weighing him down. Right now, drowning was something he could not afford.
He needed a clear head if he wanted to accomplish what he had said he would. He couldn't let anything or anybody hold him back. After everything was done, he would come back to retrieve it to make sure he would at least have a little piece of Istvan with him.
As the rain stopped and the sky cleared, the younger man rode off.
Erik would teach that bastard what true grief felt like.