Chapter Text
“Lad, I need your help,” the old huntsman tells Henry, flashing his sad, sky-blue eyes at him.
Henry blinks at him slowly, still a little sleepy, feeling like there is sand under his eyelids that refuses to go away. It’s the crack of dawn in Rattay, and he was about to go find some breakfast after a rather unpleasant night full of bad dreams, but he has always been weak to requests, so he stops, dazed and tired, and with his mind still engulfed in fog.
He has time—nearly two weeks of it, if he understands correctly. The siege of Talmberg is in the past, and the only thing waiting ahead is venturing forth with Sir Hans on a noble quest to deliver a letter.
So he listens.
Because if he doesn’t take this task someone else will give him one anyway.
“What is it? I can only do it if it doesn’t take too long,” he mumbles out, rubbing his eyes. He fights a yawn, but loses, and it rips out of him with eye-watering insistence.
“Do you have a couple days?” the old man asks with hope in his voice.
“Aye,” he says, stretching his arms and back for good measure. He should go find a trough with some nice, cold water in it and just dunk his entire head in it. That would wake him up properly.
“Lad, I have to go to Prague, my son needs me. Would you be able to watch over my hut for a bit?”
“Your hut?” he repeats dumbly, still groggy, before he sobers up with a jolt. “The one near Utechvosty?”
The man nods. “That’s the one. I just don’t want to be robbed blind while I’m not around. I’d be fine for a day or so, but it might take me four or five. You’ve been there, you know it’s a nice place. I could ask someone else but… listen, boy, I trust you. You’re a good lad,” he says without a hint of deceit in his voice, and Henry warms up instantly at the kind words “And you could rest there, too,” he adds pointedly, clearly noticing his overall state.
Henry rubs his hair sheepishly. “Five days, you say?” he asks, thinking about it. Five days is doable. Five days is more than fine, actually. He could just stay there, alone, doing nothing but eat and sleep, away from all the orders and tasks, and requests…
“God be my witness!” the man hits himself in the chest with a fist. “Just need to go visit that rascal, see what kind of trouble he’s got himself into this time. If I take longer, bury the key near the threshold and leave.”
He recalls the lone house near the pond and how isolated it was—if you can call being within half an hour of a horseride to the nearest town that. Then he feels the aches in his body, and remembers how much sleep he has gotten in the past days.
Which is to say—not much.
The bags under his eyes have bags. Being able to just sleep for a day or two sounds like heaven, even if he will have to get hammered to do that.
He looks the man in the eyes. “Alright. Five days at most. Any more and I’m gone.”
“Ah Henry, thank you so much, lad!” the old man tells him—already sagged with relief like a weight got lifted off his shoulders—and fishes out a key from his pocket. “Don’t lose it, ‘aight? You remember where it is?”
Henry nods. “Aye. Near that pond between Utechvosty and Malovidy. There was a path there too, I should be able to find my way to it.”
The huntsman smiles warmly and his whole face lights up. “You’re a lifesaver lad. Here’s the key,” he gives it to Henry, “Feel free to help yourself to whatever is in the house. I will be taking my leave now—I have a cart to find—and thank you, once again.”
“No need. And safe travels!” he waves at the old man and looks down at the key. Big, and made of iron. Solid and heavy. He takes out a piece of thread from his satchel and loops it through its hoop, fastening it to his belt.
Now he just needs to tell Hans and father he will be away for some time, get as much wine as he can carry, and it looks like he got himself a handful of days to relax.
Maybe he will get to enjoy life for once.
He can hear the argument in the main hall before he is even close to the door. He knows better by now than to just barge in, so he shares an awkward look with a guard stationed outside and sighs, leaning against the cold wall with dread. He predicts a rotten mood from a certain nobleman, and braces himself to bear the brunt of it, whether he wants to or not.
It takes half an hour for it to end.
Not calm down, end.
Abruptly, at that.
Hans exits with a scoff and the sourest look on his face since ages—his brow is pinched, mouth is downturned, cheeks are red—a picture of ire, even if a handsome one. They glance at each other and Henry tilts his head in greeting, but Hans just huffs and walks away without a word or any further acknowledgement.
Henry lets him go, knowing that air needs at least a couple moments to settle within him, and enters the hall instead.
“Henry, boy, what brings you here?” Sir Radzig asks, not getting up from his place at the table, and Henry tries not to be irked by that. He has no right to the nobleman’s attention, he is just a bastard, all things considered. What he already got is more than he should have expected.
He has to keep telling himself that.
He is just tired. He just misses his family. That’s all it is.
He bows his head.
Shallowly.
“Apologies, just wanted to let you know I will be away for a couple days,” he tells them.
“Got another errand?” Hanush asks, clearly not interested, but Henry nods anyway. “Hans could learn some hard work from you.”
Radzig glances at him sharply before turning to Henry with an exasperated expression.
“Be on your way, Henry,” he says, and it feels like an interjection on purpose to stop an impending rant. Henry is glad for it, and lets the tension in his gut ease up a bit. “Just get back in time for Sir Hans’ honourable quest.”
Henry bows properly this time, glad to have been dismissed so quickly—he is hungry and really wants that breakfast—and then runs after Hans before the git can disappear to God knows where.
Oh, who is he kidding?
It would probably be the baths.
And Henry doesn’t feel like getting goaded into drinking on an empty stomach at the very start of the day. Not when he is this tired, anyway, it would lead to catastrophic decisions, most likely.
“Siiiir,” he yells after the blob of gold in the distance. Hans slows down but doesn’t stop, but Henry takes it for a good sign anyway.
When he catches up to Hans, he has to suppress a frown. Christ, Hans looks miserable—like an angry, but sad kitten. That downward turn to his lips is even deeper, and he is wearing a scowl that begs to be erased.
That Henry wants to erase.
The impulse to see Hans happy—that blasted thing he had acquired God knows when—is so strong it wipes every other thought from his mind in an instant, leaving only one desire thrumming in his body.
The question is out of his mouth before he can even dream to stop it.
“Want to go away for a couple days and do nothing at all?”
He watches with elation as Hans stills, and a twinkle of life comes back into those blue eyes and reverberates back into Henry with a delightful flutter, lodging itself somewhere in his stomach like an overexcited bird.
Hans’ mouth twitches, and Henry knows the answer before it becomes words. Before it becomes a wide and bright grin that fills him with a visceral sense of pride.
“Help me pack, will you?” Hans says and beckons him to follow.
He does, forgoing breakfast for the time being.
He forgot he was hungry anyway.
“So, where are we going? A camp? A town?” Hans asks him as they are leaving Rattay behind them, Mutt happily running and sniffing something in the nearby bushes. The road is empty, the air is warm and fragrant, and the clouds are high and fluffy. It’s a perfect day for a ride, and Henry can already see Hans’ mood improving. “A tavern in the middle of nowhere?”
Henry huffs a laugh, unable to do anything but marvel at Hans’ willingness to just drop everything and have an adventure—without knowing what lies ahead, without knowing the direction, or any detail at all, really. He thinks it’s probably part of the reason why Sir Hanush is constantly mad at him, but keeps it to himself, fearing a kick to his leg or a well aimed throw.
Besides, it’s not like he agrees with Hanush on everything. God knows Henry would probably react far worse than Hans does about certain things.
“There’s a cabin not that far from here that I was asked to watch over for a couple days. Near Utechvosty,” he says, pointing into the general idea of where he thinks the damn village is.
“Oh, so that’s an errand for you? Aren’t you ever busy,” Hans sighs. “Wait, people just give you keys to their houses? Are they mad?”
Henry thinks of the object tied to his belt with certain warmth—he likes feeling dependable, and this time he is getting something out of it too, so his satisfaction runs twice as deep. “The huntsman knows me, I helped him out of trouble a couple times.”
“Of course you did,” Hans says, and the tilt of his head tells Henry it was supposed to be exasperated. He only hears fondness instead.
“He doesn’t know I’m taking you with me, though,” Henry smiles lightly, “so I guess your affront is somewhat warranted.”
“Do not be ridiculous, Henry. In what world would a nobleman’s visit be anything but a blessing?”
He says it in a serious tone, but Henry can see his playful smirk, like an invitation for Henry to say something back. Like he fucking needs it. His tongue is loose with Hans—always has been, always will be—he can’t imagine it any other way.
“Ah, so you’d be delighted every time Sir Hanush would deem it right to appear at your doorstep?” he teases, mirroring Hans’ expression.
Hans scoffs. “I admit, you caught me! That would be dreadful, but keep that between you and me.”
“My lips are sealed,” he says just as his stomach gives out a ferocious growl. Hans raises an eyebrow at him, amusement visible and nearly audible as he holds back a snort. “Er, let’s go to the town first, aye? I’m hungry and in the mood to make something.”
“Make something…? As in, cooking? You…? Cooking…?” Hans looks baffled and Henry damn near rolls his eyes.
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Plus, you’ll get to hunt some hares! Hopefully without any Cumans involved this time.”
“They’ll put you in the stocks for poisoning me, just throwing this reminder out there.”
“I do actually know how to prepare some food, you know? I camp alone too much, I can’t afford not knowing how to.”
“I just assumed you raided every poor bandit’s cooking pot you could spot.”
He grins. “That too!”
Hans laughs—for the first time this day—and Henry allows himself to revel in it, soaking it all, the sounds and sights. It really is such a pleasant song, doubly so when coaxed out by Henry himself. He is already glad he asked Hans to do it, and they have barely started the trip.
“Well then, we will see!” Hans shouts cheerfully. “Now let’s ride until I can’t see Rattay anymore. We have that beast inside of you to feed!”
They go to the first grocer they see in Utechvosty—the rightmost stand in a row of other merchants—picking some onions and badly cleaned carrots—the kind that is still caked in soil and dust, and requires some scrubbing to even see its colour. Hans looks at it with some doubt, but Henry seems unbothered, already seeking whatever it is he needs next.
Hans has no clue, Henry still hasn’t said what kind of dish he will be making.
“Got any thyme?” Henry eyes the bunches of dried herbs tied to the stands roof. Hans can miraculously recognise some of them—everybody knows mint, he bloody bathes in it—but most seem like any other herb, dull brownish green and leafy.
“Best thyme in the area!” the seller says, reaching up for one of them. He is an older man, rugged and with deep lines on his face, but his hands are clean and steady, and his eyes are bright.
“Bollocks,” the man in the nearby stand rolls his eyes and scoffs, making Hans glance at him. He seems to be around the same age as the other merchant, maybe a little younger, with his hair in a short ponytail and wearing a torn apron. There’s playfulness dancing in his expression, and Hans suddenly knows these two have known each other for a long time, long enough to rib at each other freely and without mercy.
His gut grows heavy with a familiar feeling, and he chances a peek at Henry quickly—only to find his eyes already on him. His insides twitch and he snaps his head away sharply
“Shut your pie hole, Matej. My herbs are superior,” the first seller glares at his neighbour, but the malice simply isn’t present in his words.
“Don’t listen to him. He wouldn’t know good thyme if it hit him in the face and he got stuffed with it. Here, how about I let you try, eh?” Matej tears off a sprig and presents it to Henry like a prize.
“Try mine instead!” the other one shouts, doing the same.
Henry takes the herbs pushed onto him and looks over at Hans, with a twinkle of amusement that is no doubt mirroring Hans’ own. Hans can tell he is trying his best to keep his face even by the way his mouth tightens and wobbles, making charming little crow’s feet grow from the corners of his eyes. “I’ll ask my lord to be the judge. Sir Hans?” Henry hides a smile—Hans can see it in the dimples—and offers the samples.
Hans’ mouth twitches. He grabs them, looks them over, sniffing first, before he puts them in his mouth, one by one, earthiness exploding on his tongue with surprising intensity. The sellers watch silently, having only then realised they are in the presence of nobility, and Hans smacks his mouth, making a whole show of savouring the flavour, crooning and sighing like he is the highest judge.
He hums to himself. “They taste the same,” he says simply.
It’s like putting fire to dried hay.
“Nah, come on!” Matej cries out, baffled.
“My lord, with all due respect—!”
Henry stifles a laugh as the two men visibly try to rein in their outrage at Hans’ opinions, and he blooms with mirth inside, glad to be the cause of it.
“Excuse us, my lord, you surely are used to more refined tastes.”
“Aye, we wouldn’t expect you to master the peasant flavours.”
Hans sends Henry an incredulous look then, so he steps in with barely hidden glee.
“I’ll take the thyme too, then. Pack it up, good man. Do you have a butcher around here?”
“Aye, go that way,” the seller points at a building in the distance in resignation. “He’s got a sign up.”
“And buy from me next time,” Matej can’t help but add.
They walk away to the sound of yet another argument—something that makes Hans smile for some reason.
“You almost made them friends with that little quip,” Henry chuckles quietly, stuffing everything into the sack.
“I think they’re already there. Besides, it really did taste the same,” Hans retorts cheerily.
“Believe me, for once I thought you were in the right.”
“Without even trying it?”
“It’s thyme, Hans. How different can it be?”
“Well, if you had the refined peasant tongue—”
Henry bursts out laughing. “You are right, maybe I should’ve tried. Just to find out whether I should train my tongue more.” Hans throws him a filthy grin and he groans. “Lecher,” he mutters fondly. “Let’s get the damn bacon.”
“And some sausage. I’m not making this ride again if you screw up our dinner.”
“There’s nothing to screw up, you’ll see. It’ll be the best dinner you’ll ever taste.”
“I’ll make sure to mention your boasting to Maria,” Hans says slyly, having an inkling that it will give Henry a pause.
It does. Hans knows pissing off the castle cook isn’t something Henry wants to do—Christ, that woman lets him run with enough dinner scraps that he is actually putting on some weight.
Hans isn’t complaining.
“...It’ll be the best camp dinner you’ll ever taste,” Henry amends.
Hans slaps his back. “I’ll believe it once it’s in my mouth. Bacon now, dear Henry. And put butter and bread on the list.”
Henry makes quick work of the butcher, leaving Hans outside with Mutt, who was being a little too fidgety near all the delicious smells. Hans watches, amused, as the dog sits unblinking, staring at the door to the building with a wagging tail and a long disgusting thread of drool running down from his mouth.
“You’d better gotten something for him, one could believe you are starving the fleabag,” Hans says once Henry is out and points at the string of slick that is long enough to touch the ground.
Henry happily waggles a blood-soaked cloth bundle. “Got some guts!” he says, smiling too widely for something so revolting. Mutt’s slobber coats the dirt as they make their way away from the building, the beast barely containing the excited whines. “Good doggy, I got something for you,” Henry pats his head and unwraps the meat, laying it on a patch of grass. “Baker next? We need flour, and bread for tomorrow sounds nice.”
Hans’ lips quirk up slightly. We. Hah. He does like the sound of that, especially when it’s Henry saying it. It sounds right and calming, and so much unlike the conversations he was forced to have for the last couple of days. Conversations full of ‘You, you, you’. It's never ‘We’ with Hanush.
But he doesn’t want to think about it right now.
“Aye,” he replies to Henry, “Where does one go to acquire butter?”
“Oh, I already got it from the butcher. His family owns cows—they named one Kuba, ‘cause their daughter got confused and thought that ‘cows could be boys too’. Anyways—”
Hans tucks everything into his saddlebags while Mutt eats, and Henry washes his hands, prattling away at some silly story. He feels strangely at peace, doing all these mundane things. Away from Hanush, away from his people, it’s like a weight has disappeared from his shoulders.
He takes a deep breath and lets the warmth of the sun hit his face. The air smells of horse, but he doesn’t mind it much.
It doesn’t smell like Rattay, and that’s all it matters.
“Glad to see you’re looking better,” he hears and startles back into reality. Henry is looking at him with fondness that is quickly transforming into merriment at his reaction. Hans likes that expression on him—it fills him with something tingling that is entirely unique to just them both. He never feels like this with anyone else.
Only with Henry. Always with Henry.
It’s vexing.
He can’t get enough.
“Are you implying I looked bad at any point?” he asks wryly.
“This morning? Like a puffed up wet cat, my lord,” Henry smirks lightly.
“Wet?! Why wet?” he asks, incredulous.
“I said what I said, my lord,” Henry chuckles and those eyes finally look away. “Let’s get some bread.”
They wander around then ask for directions. Hans finds a woman selling cherries and buys some for them both. They are ripe and full of juice, and only slightly tart, and Henry grunts in surprise when he pops one in his mouth—a sound Hans can’t help but put on a shelf in his mind—lips stained brilliant and deep red. They save the cherries for later with glee.
They don’t save the freshly baked buns they got at the baker’s—they eat those on horseback, saddle richer with a loaf and a handful of flour. The crust crunches when they bite into it, and Hans’ mouth waters at the flavour of the dough while Henry devours the whole thing in one go.
Hans laughs when Henry has to hit his chest a couple times to get the bread down.
It’s freeing.
It’s fun.
He feels alive.