Archive of Our Own

If it weren’t for the rain, Henry thought, he wouldn’t be in this position. On cue, the sky broke apart with another bolt of lightning, another crash of thunder, strong enough to rattle the ground below his aching body. They were in the eye of the storm.

The ache in his skull was a distant thing, though his ears rang and vision blurred double. Raindrops fell sideways, ice cold, a thousand tiny cuts across exposed skin. Blood trickled from the wound, diluted to a stream and stinging his eyes, so the world was not only seen double but painted red.

It wasn’t supposed to rain. It had been a beautiful day, early summer sun turning the entire forest a vibrant green, the sky a perfect blue. Perfect for hunting, Hans had said, and who was Henry to deny his lord? Only he should have noticed the clouds rolling in, he thought. He should have noticed a lot of things.

Not too far away, the clashing of swords. The telltale sound of an arrow nocked, and the rush as it flew overhead. All of it felt worlds away, like trying to kick up to the surface from the bottom of a murky pond. He tried to stand once, twice, three times, and at each attempt his knees buckled beneath his weight, sending him back into the mud.

The mud. That was the problem too, now he came to think of it. Just a few minutes worth of rain and the ground had soaked through, leaving him unsteady on his feet. When the bandit had swung his mace towards Henry’s stupidly unarmoured skull, he’d side-stepped the attack – only to lose his footing and crash to the ground. Whether the injury came from the weapon or the rocks he’d landed on with an awful crack, that remained unclear. Sakra, it was starting to hurt.

And Mutt – where on earth was that dog when Henry needed him? – he’d been distracted too, the first wave of thunder sending hares and roebucks scattering through the trees. Otherwise, he’d have alerted them to the camp ahead, buried amongst the brush. He was a good dog.

“Henry? Henry!” A voice broke through. Zizka, he realised. They’d been out with Zizka and Kubyenka, a short ride from the Devil’s Den. Hunting. Yes, that was right. Why was that so hard to remember?

Again, the sky fractured and the heavens roared. Pain broke through to the forefront of his shaken mind, at once bone-deep and white-hot. His arm was bleeding, gambeson torn and sticking to the skin. His ribs ached, felt like he’d been trampled by a horse. Piecing any information together took too long, but it was becoming clear he’d lost consciousness at some point. That he was likely about to lose it again.

“Over ‘ere,” he said. His voice was slurred, and a vague memory of a conversation with Musa told him that this was another bad sign. Christ, just how many hits had he taken?

More shouting, curses in a number of languages. These weren’t just bandits. Left over Praguers or Cumans or some other runaways from Sigismund’s forces, scouring the countryside to take what little the poor commoners had left. Hatred and anger burned hot in the forge of Henry’s chest and with it came a rush of energy, just enough to push himself upright.

“Over here!” Henry attempted again, coughing from exertion and tasting copper on his tongue. “Sir Hans! Where’re you?”

Panic came all at once, a horrid beast, stealing the breath from his lungs. Hans was not by his side. Henry had not heard his voice in some time.

“Hans!” Still, nothing. Henry forced himself to his feet, staggering and half-blind, each step landing heavier than the last. The sound of battle had faded, replaced or drowned out by the howling wind. Without a map or clear sense of direction, he moved in the only direction he could - forward, using the bodies cut down in the fray as his guide.

Not Hans, Henry prayed. God forgive him, but let the bodies on the ground belong to anyone but Hans. 

His prayer was broken by the thunk of an axe burying itself deep into the bark of a tree, thrown from about twenty paces. The blade landed just above Henry’s shoulder, and what a near miss that was. Add that to the growing list of things Henry had missed: the rustling in the bushes as he passed, the attacker hidden and waiting to strike. He felt stupid, his thoughts sluggish and half-baked.

But his slow mind seemed to operate separately from his battle instincts, thank God. A rush of adrenaline and a few seconds’ warning was all it took for Henry to draw his longsword into a defensive position. Logically, this was an awful idea. There was little chance he could win a fight in this state, with the world blurring at the edges of his vision.

“Fuck off!” He shouted, desperate, more a plea than a battle cry. But he prepared to strike all the same, fighting against the urge to lay down and rest.

Then, the snap of branches and clanking of metal. A voice he would recognise anywhere, in any battlefield or city or forest. “Mutt, sic!”

The dog was on the bandit in a flash, jaw hinged tight around his arm. He erupted in a string of curses and stumbled back, shaking his arm free for a moment. Big mistake, Henry thought. Mutt was always happiest giving chase.

Soon enough they were crashing through the trees, the dog nipping at the man’s heels until an arrow through the neck sent him gurgling to the ground. Hans lowered his bow and dropped it to the ground.

“Jesus Christ be praised, you’re alive.” Hans crossed the space between them in an instant, grabbing hold of Henry’s elbows in an attempt to keep the other man on his feet. “What a royal shitshow that was. What the fuck happened?”

“Mnh,” Henry grunted, eyes darting across the young lord’s features. He seemed to be well, all things considered. A bruise was starting to blossom along his jaw, and there were a few cuts here and there, but he was alive. Amen, Henry thought. “I, fuck – I need t’ sit down.”

Hans’ brow knotted together in a frown for a short moment, ready to complain, before Henry became a dead weight in his arms. “Shit! Henry?”

The storm was passing, the thunder growing distant. Foggy clouds and dark shapes swam across Henry’s vision as he fell to the ground with a thud, knees sinking into the dirt once more. Hans went with him, straining to keep them both upright.  A faraway amusement flickered in Henry’s mind at the Lord of Pirkstein muddying himself for his squire, and not for the first time.

Mutt reappeared by their side, whining in concern and nuzzling against Henry’s leg. When no reassuring words or pat to the head came his way, he began barking up a storm of his own, loud enough to draw Zizka and Kubyenka to their spot within the forest.

He really was a good dog.

“Henry, for fuck’s sake, get up,” Hans ranted, shaking Henry as if to rouse him back to consciousness. “Hal, stay with us. Stay with me.”

It was so nice to rest his eyes, though. Hans was safe, and sleep called to him like a siren song.

Recognising Henry wasn’t rising anytime soon, Hans turned his attention to the other men. Fear transformed him into a right little lord, ordering them about like a respected military commander. Hands grabbed and hauled at Henry’s limp sack of a body, manoeuvring him across winding paths and through snarled branches until they reached their horses.

“Almost there, Hal. Try to keep your eyes open. Just a short ride home and we’ll get you fixed up. Can’t get yourself killed on a hunting trip, for God’s sake, not after everything we’ve survived.” Hans’ voice was a constant stream of reassurance, urging him to stay awake and all the while lulling him to sleep. Had Henry ever told Hans what a nice voice he had, when he wasn’t whining?

Everything hurt. The world spun around and over itself. Zizka snapped something below his breath, Kubyenka hadn’t made a single joke. Like the conversion with Musa, these were all bad signs.

As he felt himself hauled up and onto a horse, a final memory bounced around his aching skull. It wasn’t the rain. It wasn’t the thunder. It wasn’t Mutt failing to alert them that led him here. It wasn’t Zizka or Kubyenka’s fault, either.

They had entered the forest in the sun, Hans and Henry side by side, hands almost close enough to touch. The other men had taken a different path, following some tip about wild boars gathering at a nearby stream.

A week had passed since they celebrated victory at Suchdol, and this was one of the only blessed chances they’d had to be alone since. It had been one hell of a week, full of food and alcohol and lengthy written correspondences to every Wenceslas sympathiser that Jobst and Lichtenstein knew of. Still, a feeling Henry was unable to shake - if not avoiding him entirely, Hans was certainly skirting around the unspoken, at the very least.

Truth be told, it was driving him insane. Months of easy companionship had been swept away into whatever this was, heavy and unspoken. Standing next to Hans felt like reaching out towards an open flame; the burning heat of it was painful, but it was a pain he’d choose over and over if it meant not knowing the cold.

He needed to know what they were to each other. He needed to know that this was not a mistake. Or if it was, he needed to know now, before the longing killed him.

Henry had missed the darkening clouds above, the burnt out embers of discarded campfires, the distant voices, all the signs he’d grown attuned to spotting in the months prior. He missed them because his focus belonged solely to Hans, the world narrowed to the sharp turn of his overconfident smile, the creases by his eyes when he laughed, the grace with which he readied his bow and lined up each shot.

And so when the attack broke, it came without warning. All because Henry had been preoccupied calculating a different risk altogether – at what point would it be safe for him to take Hans into his arms again, and ask if he’d meant it?

“Stupid, really,” he mumbled. “‘S really stupid.”

“What?” Zizka asked. “Christ, he’s out cold again. Let’s go.”

A quick click sent the horses rushing forward, and Henry felt the entire world fall away.

It had been a quiet day at Devil’s Den, for once. There hadn’t even been a barfight yet, much to Innkeeper Treadlight’s surprise. He’d actually managed to fix the broken benches left over from the last game of dice gone awry.

People moved through their routines as usual, returning to the menial chores and practice fights that made up their days after the storm had passed. Godwin stood on the balcony, looking down at Dry Devil practicing with a crossbow (the one only recently returned to him), and at Katherine and Musa sharing notes on some improved painkiller brew they were trying to concoct.

He took a long drink from his tankard of ale, cold and just the right amount of bitter. A sixth sense, a worry of something, prickled at the base of his neck. After so long moving from disaster to disaster, he tried to convince himself that caution was just a hard habit to break.

But when man makes a plan, God laughs, and the gallop of hooves cut through any hope of a restful evening.

Young Lord Capon led the charge, racing his horse as if the devil himself was at their heels. “We need some help over here! Quickly, now!”

Zizka and Kubyenka weren’t far behind and Godwin realised, with a pang of dread deep in his chest, that Henry was not riding Pebbles. The boy shared a horse with Zizka, body slumped back against the commander’s chest, head lolling from side to side like a drunk carried away by the city guards.

The sudden commotion had drawn a crowd and Godwin’s feet carried him downstairs before his mind could have a say in the matter. He reached the courtyard just as Hans dismounted his horse, his hands shaking something fierce as he passed the reins to a hired hand.

“Someone help me get him down, for fuck sake. He’s out again.” Zizka grunted, trying to keep Henry from falling. Hans rushed over, throwing one of Henry’s arms around his shoulders and grabbing at his waist. It would be strange for any other lord, any other squire, but most at the Den knew better than to question Hans and Henry’s relationship.

Katherine and Musa rushed toward the group, moving in perfect step, bandages and disinfectants already gathered in their arms. A silent exchange took place between Zizka and Katherine, an entire conversation in the shake of a head and sideways glance. It did little to quell the rising anger turning the woman’s cheeks red.

“You were only supposed to be hunting! What happened? Why do you idiots always insist on a fight, on pushing yourself to the brink of death? We just escaped death, if you had already forgotten!”

“Not now, Kate, please.” Answered Zizka, his tone firm but with no real bite, just a world-weariness pulling at the edges. Katherine’s response was cut off by Hans who, in his panic, sounded shrill and desperate, a bird calling out as it took flight.

“Did you say the brink of death? It’s not that bad. Is it? No, come now, he just – he just got knocked about a bit, is all!” A half-laugh, half-sob erupted from Hans’ chest, his eyes darting from person to person in the crowd. “He’ll be all right. You have to make sure he’ll be all right. You will make sure he’s all right.”

A beat of silence, a moment too long, before Musa stepped in. He placed a gentle hand on Hans’ forearm. “We’ll need to examine him. Come, you’ve got a few scrapes yourself, let the others take him to a bed. Katherine will go with him, and I’ll see to you.”

“What? No, no. I’ll stay with Henry, I want to –” Across the courtyard, Hans’ eyes locked with Godwin’s, and the priest gave a subtle shake of his head. The fight went from Hans’ body like smoke carried away on the breeze, his shoulders slumping. “Fine. Fine, but I’ll go to him afterwards.”

“That sounds like a good plan, my friend. Can someone get Samuel? He’ll get Henry upstairs.” The other meaning went unspoken; Sam would raise hell if not informed of his brother’s injury. Thank God he hadn’t left for Kolin yet.

Like the group of battle-hardened soldiers most of them were, the inhabitants of the Den stepped into action. Someone called for Sam and he came running, taking Henry from Hans’ arms and hauling him upstairs with Zizka’s help. Katherine followed, shouting instructions to anyone who would listen about what to do, what to bring her. Hynek and Janush went to Kubyenka, trying to understand what had happened and offering the man a much-needed drink.

A few stragglers were left behind, tavern regulars, local workers and housemaids. They whispered to one another, glancing at Hans in the wake of his outburst. Godwin cleared his throat and gave the gathering a sharp look. “If you’ll excuse us, everyone, Lord Capon requires some time to recover from the attack. It’d be kind of you to offer it to him.”

In the dust left behind, Hans stood frozen, the picture of a deer in the moment before it bolted towards the treeline. Musa spoke softly and guided him to the nearest seat as Godwin ushered any remaining passersby away. The lord looked as dazed as he had at Maleshov, the same expression in his eyes as when they’d pulled him from the rubble.

Wordlessly, Musa got to work cleaning a cut across Hans’ cheek. He wet some bandages with moonshine, the best thing he had to hand to treat the wound, and pressed the compress against his skin. Hans barely flinched.

Godwin wandered over, sitting across the bench from Hans, trying to get the lord to meet his eyes. “Lord Capon? Hans, back to us now. We need to know who attacked and if there’s to be a retaliation. I don’t think Devil’s Den could hold off a siege like at Suchdol, if you two have walked us into another shitstorm.”

“What? No, that’s not… We didn’t, that’s not what happened. We didn’t do anything wrong.” He sounded for all the world like a child trying to avoid punishment, his eyes still unfocused. A noise from the bushes caused his head to snap sideways and Musa to curse under his breath, his treatment interrupted.

“Mutt? Oh thank God, you mangy creature, you’re safe.” Relief flooded Hans’ voice, some light returning to his eyes. The dog was covered in dirt and blood, and seemed to avoid putting weight on one of his front paws. Still, he hobbled over, head on a swivel and nose twitching.

“That dog will survive the rapture, when it comes.” Godwin laughed, holding his palm out to try to summon Mutt closer. Mutt huffed dismissively. “It seems he’s looking for his master.”

You and me both, Mutt, Hans thought but did not say.

“Come here, boy,” Hans tried and to his surprise, the dog listened, pressing his head against his leg in greeting before settling across his feet. Hans reached down to pat his head. “Good Mutt. You helped save our arses, didn’t you? That’s a good dog.”

“So what happened to you fellahs? Henry looks like he’s taken a right royal beating.”

“I don’t even know, Godwin.” Hans started, pausing briefly to turn his head to the side as Musa checked him over. “We were out for a hunt, and then the storm came through, and we’d somehow missed a full camp of men waiting to jump us. Sigismund’s lot, I think, so they came at us with a vengeance.”

“Do you think we’re in danger here?” Musa asked, brow furrowing. The physician had as much to worry about as any of them, after turning on Sigismund so decisively at the Italian Court.

“No, I don’t think so. We were split up and outnumbered, but the majority of the men are lying face down in the dirt by now. Jesus Chist be fucking praised.” Hans ran a hand through his hair, the blonde marred with dirt and blood not his own.

“And how did Henry get injured? Knowing the details will help Katherine and I treat him.” Musa held out a bottle of something to Hans, and he drank it without question, pulling a face as the liquid went down. Godwin silently handed over a wineskin from his pack.

“I wasn’t there to see it. We were together when the fight started, but it all happened so quickly. Someone cracked that thick skull of his,” A slight tremor broke in his voice, and he took a long drink of wine to try banish it. “Didn’t think that was possible. He’s been in and out since we found him.”

“From what I saw, it looks like they kept hitting him once he was down.” Godwin shook his head with a sigh. “Bastards.”

“Bastards.” Hans agreed.

The men fell into a solemn silence, Hans and Godwin drinking, Musa finishing up his treatment. Hans’ mind raced with fears he could not voice, lest he betray the unending well of feeling in the pit of his stomach. Curse this soft heart of his, he thought. Curse Henry for making him feel this way. Every time he blinked, he saw Henry in the dirt, bleeding out.

“Your injuries aren’t too bad, Lord Capon. But take it slow over the next few days and inform me if you feel any new pain, or the beginnings of a fever. I’m going to join Katherine and see what we can do for Henry.” Hans nodded at Musa in thanks, not trusting his voice. “Godwin, would you join me?”

“Of course. But I’m not performing any final rites.” Godwin joked as he stood, squeezing Hans’ shoulder on the way past. “Try not to fret, Capon. It’ll take more than a knock to the head to get rid of your Henry.”

Hans nodded in farewell, and soon, he was alone.

The sun was setting and a tavern girl passed him by silently, placing some food at the table’s end and lighting torches as she went. Hans looked at the plate, couldn’t even stomach the sight. He rested his head in his hands, palms pressed hard against his face until colour sparked behind his eyelids.

Tears threatened to spill, stinging his eyes and making his face grow hot. Fear and anger in equal parts. Anger at Henry for getting so horribly injured, anger at himself for not being able to help. Anger at how stupid it was for this to happen now, after everything they’d survived to get here.

A memory of Suchdol, his own voice ringing petulantly in his ears. Why can’t I save you for once?

Another fight where Henry had taken the blow for him, Hans was sure. How many more fights could they make it through this way? How many more times would Henry put his life on the line for him, until he realised it wasn’t worth it?

Self-preservation had never been Henry’s strong suit. He was always too willing to take the risk for another, be that Hans or a stranger on the street facing a group of bandits. Stupid and reckless. Brave and selfless.

Hans did not share the same affliction. He would see a hundred commoners cut down if it meant Henry could stay safe for once, God forgive him. Selfish and scared, he berated himself. No wonder he hadn’t been deemed ready to take his rightful role as Lord of Pirkstein.

But was that even what he wanted anymore? His own wedding was on the horizon, each new dawn dragging him one step closer to the altar. Marriage was another noose around his neck, drawing tighter and tighter until he could not breathe. Each new day at the Den was a gift, as horrible as the place was, and once Hanush’s summons arrived, there wouldn’t be much that he could do to escape it.

At this very moment, Hans wanted only for one thing: Henry, safe and sound.

In truth, that was all he wanted at any moment, from the second he opened his eyes to the dreams he dreamt each night. Henry, safe and sound. Henry, close by his side. Henry, all of him, in a way that he still didn’t have the words for.

His thoughts were only broken some time later, by the sound of creaking wood, and he looked up to see Samuel settling on the bench across from him. “I thought you might like some company.”

“You can just sit, if that’s what you want to do. No need for excuses.” There it was, the tug of jealousy that came whenever Hans had to speak with Sam – something he ardently tried to avoid. Stupid, after all they’d been through and all Sam had done for them. The emotions were all tangled up, Hans left to slowly unpick the threads.

The closest he’d got to understanding was the fear of being replaced, though brother was never a label he associated with Henry. Brother in arms, maybe, but not a brother to him. Even before they’d spent the night together, the endearment didn’t fit right. And it wasn’t like Henry having friends was the issue – Henry made friends everywhere he went, the bastard, without ever trying.

His other guess was far simpler. Brother was easy to explain. Brother, though not by blood, meant Sam could fret over Henry’s safety in earnest. It allowed him to join Henry at his bedside, squeeze his hand, and stay up all night to ensure he kept breathing, if Sam so wished.

That was a luxury Hans was not afforded. Noble blood meant noble actions, noble temperament, so on and so forth. He was not to fret over a commoner, not even Razdig’s bastard child. He couldn’t even risk embracing Henry when Suchdol was reclaimed; too many eyes, too many feelings and not enough strength to contain them had he taken Henry into his arms.

They were already walking along a fine line, if the look he received from Godwin earlier was anything to go by.

“Have you eaten?” Sam asked, either ignoring or oblivious to the way Hans’ leg bounced nervously as he thought.

“No. The food is yours, if you want it.”

“You should try. It’s been a long day, it seems.” His voice was softer than usual as he pushed the plate towards Hans, who picked up a half-stale piece of bread and tore at it idly.

“You can say that again.” Hans huffed, shaking his head. He picked a piece of meat from the tray and dropped it down to Mutt, still laying across his feet. It was strange, he thought. Just a week ago people had been eating their belts, and now he was unable to stomach food at all. How quickly the body forgets it was starving.

“Lord Capon,” Sam started formally, before correcting himself. “Hans.”

Hans met his eyes, and saw for the first time how tired Sam looked. Panic flared between his ribs, a rabbit kicking at his sternum. “No. No, don’t you dare say you’ve been sent here to deliver bad news.”

Sam’s eyes widened and he shook his head quickly. “It’s not that. I swear to you, if signs showed otherwise – God forbid – I’d have called for you before anyone else. But I did want to give you an update.”

A noise of relief escaped Hans’ throat. He coughed pathetically, a weak attempt of a cover up. It truly had been a long day and, he realised all of a sudden, he’d been out here alone much longer than he’d thought.

All of this pretending to care less than he did was going to kill him, he was certain.

“And?” He urged, looking at Sam to continue.

“Henry is asleep. Katherine and Musa think he is concussed, but not even one of his own Cockrel tinctures would wake him. He is feverish from a wound across his stomach, and he likely has some broken ribs. They wouldn’t have managed that if they’d fought him fairly, the cowards.” Sam spat the ground.  “But he will live.”

“Jesus Christ be praised.” Hans exhaled. “The knock to his head, will it… could it change him?”

Years ago, in his childhood, Hans recalled speaking to a local lad who had been kicked by his mare. The boy had lived, but was never quite right again. His words were all mixed up, escaping from his lips in the wrong order or with the wrong sounds. The worst part was that the boy knew – you could see it in his eyes, the frustration at a mind that refused to cooperate.

Henry was smart as a whip, able to counter Hans’ points in almost any debate these days. He was kind and he was funny in a way that he often didn’t realise. The blacksmith’s boy had no clue the effect he had on people. And, oh, was he gentle when it counted, every slash of a sword counteracted with a helping hand or kind word. If any part of him were to change, Hans wasn’t sure he could survive it.

“What, you mean could it make him stupider?” Sam joked weakly. He shrugged. “We do not know. Not until he wakes properly. All we can do is hope and pray.”

Hans nodded, casting his eyes down as tears threatened to fall again. Curse his soft heart. It had been easier to pretend before, but now feelings came with the force of the Great Flood, and Hans had no ark to save him.

“I know.” Sam said quietly. He reached across the table and patted Hans’ arm awkwardly, but not unkindly. His voice carried the weight of a shared secret. “I know how you care for him.”

Wind swept through the trees, leaves rustling and branches creaking gently. The horses whinnied and huffed. Voices carried from inside, brief bursts of laughter from Hynek and the clinking of tankards. 

Hans dared lift his gaze for a moment. Sam’s eyes were always severe, a young man who had already seen too much death, like all the young men caught up in this war. But they were knowing and they were kind, and they pierced Hans like an arrow to the heart. The rabbit in his chest thump-thump-thumped away.

“You do?” He asked. Lord, was he tired of pretending.

“I do. And I will not trouble either of you with my questions, not today at least. And I will not breathe a word to another living soul.” Sam promised. The tavern door swung open, patrons exiting drunkenly, a man singing to himself of booze and breasty maidens as he trudged towards the bathhouse across the road. Sam, wiser than Hans gave him credit for, waited until the man was further away before continuing.

“And because I know this, and because I love my brother, I thought to ask if you would sit with him tonight, while he recovers.” He glanced towards Henry’s room, up on the balcony. “I am asking you as a favour, because I need to leave for Kolin and back, and I will be gone for a few days. You are the one I trust to keep him well.”

Hans choked on the rising tide of emotion. “I can do that.”

“Good. Thank you, Lord Capon.” He offered another small smile. “He’s in his room. Katherine is just finishing up and Godwin is saying a prayer, then they’ll leave you be.”

“They’ll… leave us alone?” Hans couldn’t escape the feeling of an animal walking towards a hunters’ trap.

“On my request, yes.” Sam paused again, searching for the words. “I believe they also know of your… situation. Not exactly, of course, but enough to give you the privacy you deserve.”

Hans nodded dumbly. This could be a terrible problem, he thought. But then, who would they tell? What evidence did they have? Who would believe them? Slander against a noble could be punished, if needed, and Hanush would make sure of that, all Hans had to do was ask.

A horrible thought. Hans berated himself for it as soon as it crossed his mind. With great effort, he forced himself to nod again. “Thank you.”

“It is not for you, my friend.” Sam replied, but there was no malice. “Henry is my brother, blood or not, and I want him happy.”

The other man rose from the table with a yawn and stretch, readying himself to head to his room. Before leaving, he turned to look at Hans once more, his voice low and serious. “Make sure you see to that.”

“I will.” Hans nodded. “Thank you, Samuel.”

“Oh, and one more thing,” Sam added. “Get yourself cleaned up before you go to see Henry. You stink like shit.”

Henry’s room was made up like a medical tent, bottles and bandages and thread for stitches littering every surface.

The smell of alcohol and blood mixed with smoke from the fire, making Hans’ stomach lurch and transporting his mind to the countless battles of the past month. Mutt seemed to sense it and nuzzled against his hand, a big wet kiss from a rough tongue bringing Hans back to the room.

Of course, Mutt was not meant to be in the tavern, but who was going to deny Hans anything after the day he’d had?

On the stairs up to Henry’s room, he’d passed Zizka, and the captain had clapped a hand to his shoulder. He mumbled something vaguely encouraging, promised that Henry was tough as nails, and moved along without a sideways glance at the dog. Katherine had smiled at him warmly and Hans could have sworn he saw Godwin nod in approval. Even the Devil hadn’t bothered teasing Hans about his earlier outburst.

Now he sat on the bed beside Henry, perched awkwardly around Henry’s sprawling limbs. Mutt had clambered onto the bed first, claiming his spot and curling up by his master’s feet.

Firelight flickered over Henry’s features, and for a moment, he looked so young. He had been stripped down to his hose, bandages wrapped around his chest and arms. His hair was matted with dried blood. Despite the battle scars and bruises blooming across his skin, he looked peaceful. Long, dark eyelashes fluttered as he slept, his chest dragging up and down in a pained rhythm.

It was the longest they’d had to themselves that Hans could remember, and Henry wasn’t even conscious for it. Arsehole, Hans thought bitterly.

How had he imagined their reunion? After Suchdol was liberated, they had stolen an hour while everyone else got increasingly drunk, under the guise of Henry inspecting Hans’ recent arrow wound.

Or, Hans had thought it was a guise. He had slammed the door shut behind them, bolted it tight, and approached Henry with all the confidence he could muster, practically feverish with want and an animalistic need to be close, to feel Henry alive and breathing in his hands. 

The squire had then spent twenty minutes inspecting each of his lord’s wounds, to the point where Hans thought he’d made some terrible mistake and their night together was to be buried and forgotten about, a terrible regret the two of them would take to their graves.

But then Henry had taken Hans into his arms, buried his face into the crook of his neck and pressed his lips to where Hans’ pulse thrummed at the base of his neck. He’d whispered a thousand sweet words, and Hans could have sworn he felt tears rolling down the collar of his shirt. Not much else happened. They just held one another in the dimming firelight, mumbling all kinds of nonsense between kisses.

They hadn’t truly spoken about what any of this meant. Shamefully, that was part of the reason Hans had suggested hunting. He’d hoped to find the time and place to discuss the enormity of this thing between them and what it meant for their future. And, if he were truthful, Hans had hoped to make camp with Henry and recreate their night at Suchdol in the hours before Henry’s mission.

Their first meeting had been desperate, half-starved bodies pressing against each other, scared and uncertain and wanting. He had wanted a do-over. If not for Henry’s stupidly loud voice leading Zizka and Kubyenka to invite themselves along, they might have had that – they might be tangled under a bear pelt together this very moment, rather than Hans watching Henry fight for each breath.

He took hold of Henry’s hand, a rough and calloused thing, marred by years of hard labour and combat. Hans brushed his thumb across his palm, tracing each line in turn. It was a selfish display of affection, one that he’d thought of doing each day for longer than he’d dare admit. 

“You better wake up soon, Hal,” he started softly. “You’ve scared the life out of me today. I thought that after everything, we could have one normal day. Just one. But I forgot who we are, I think. Trouble finds us at every turn. Audentes fortuna iuvat, even when I’m starting to wish Fortune would fuck right off.

“And… I don’t feel brave anymore. I feel like I want a break from this, from everything. I feel like I’ve had more than my fair share of near-death experiences the past few weeks alone. They had a noose around my neck, for Christ’s sake – me, a noble! And let’s not forget Maleshov and that Finger of God. Awful name, by the way, as if God’s finger would look like some crazed miner’s contraption. I know it’s a Biblical reference, by the way, before you think about getting smart with me.”

Henry huffed, and both Hans and Mutt lifted their gaze to look at him. A small grunt later and he was back to breathing rhythmically, still unconscious. Hans looked at Mutt and shrugged helplessly, before continuing his speech.

“That’s not even the worst part. It… that was when I couldn’t find you in the forest. I thought you were dead, and the entire ride back here, you wouldn’t wake up. I couldn’t get you to wake up. That hasn’t happened before, Henry, even at Maleshov. I could hear you trying to get to me right until that pillar knocked you out.

“But this time, you wouldn’t! It’s not right, that some uninteresting, insignificant group of bandits could have –” he paused, only realising tears had begun to fall when he lifted his hand to wipe them. “Could have taken you from me, when we’ve not even had the chance to speak.”

Mutt readjusted on the bed, shuffling closer to Hans and resting his head in the space between Hans and Henry’s legs. “And now I’m being comforted by your dog, and he stinks, to make matters worse.”

Hans sniffed, breathing out a shaky sigh. “So you have to wake up, by the time dawn comes tomorrow. And you have to be your usual, stupid self. Do you hear me? That’s an order. If you still care about what I ask of you as your lord, then that’s an order. Or if you don’t care that I’m your lord, just do it for me, Hal. For Hans, not Lord Capon.”

The fire burned down slowly to embers and Hans let silence settle over the room once more, brushing hair from Henry’s eyes and keeping a tight hold of his hand. When Henry showed no signs of waking, Hans thought about leaving – before deciding he would rather the entire tavern knew his feelings than risk leaving Henry’s side.

He shrugged his overcoat off, kicked his shoes into a corner and curled up on the bed beside Henry, careful to avoid pressing any weight against the injured man’s chest. He turned on his side, rested his head on the pillow beside Henry and placed an arm lightly over his stomach, feeling the steady rise and fall that came with each breath.

His eyelids grew heavy as he settled, already fighting sleep. Consciousness was slipping through his fingers, and he allowed it to happen, feeling his body relax in the way it only could when encompassed by Henry’s. They had spent but one night together in earnest, and yet it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

“I won’t lose you, Henry,” he mumbled, a whisper in the dark. “I don’t think I could bear it. If I thought it was bad at Suchdol, it’s worse now. So wake up and tell me you feel the same, or don’t, as long as you wake up.”

Hans woke to the chirping of birds, the sound of people below beginning their days, and the feeling of a thumb stroking lazily at the back of his head.

He shot upright like an arrow loosed from a bowstring, turning to face Henry. The blue eyes looking back at him were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Morning,” Henry mumbled. His voice was like gravel, scraping out from his throat, but it was his voice, the same grumbling humour that had driven Hans insane for months on end. “Your own bed not comfortable enough for his lordship?”

“You fucking yokel.” Hans resisted the urge to punch Henry in the face, opting instead to crash their lips together. It was not a gentle kiss, but the kiss of another desperate reunion, and in the back of his mind, Hans prayed for a life where they had enough time to treat one another gently.

Henry returned the kiss in equal measure, as best he could, ever the sparring partner. The movement woke Mutt and the hound started barking angrily, startled by all the sudden movement.

They broke apart with a laugh and Henry raised a hand to quiet his dog, wincing at the effort. 

“Hush, you daft thing. It’s all right, isn’t it? It’s just our Hans, not some monster.” Mutt pushed his head into Henry’s side, tail whipping up a storm with each pet he received. “Ow! You’re gonna bruise us, Mutt, calm down.”

“I think he was worried for you.” Hans said, resting his thumb on Henry’s cheek. “We all were.”

“Well,” Henry pushed himself to a seated position, wheezing with the effort. Without pause, Hans moved to help him, acting like something of a mother hen. “I feel like death, so I guess there’s a reason for that. What the fuck happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

“We were on a hunt. There was a storm. I got the shit kicked out of me. I remember you finding me, and parts of the journey home. I think I got closer to Zizka than anyone else has in years, bar Katherine after they’ve drunk enough ale.”

“That sounds about right.” Hans snorted. Relief ran through him like a flood, he sent a thousand thanks to his God, Sam’s God, Musa’s God, whoever had listened and brought Henry back to him in one piece. “You were bleeding a lot. You were concussed, and have a few broken ribs to show for it.”

“Mhm. Think I’m feeling them now.” Henry grumbled, moving his hand from Mutt to press against his ribs, feeling the bruise. In their weeks apart, Henry had transformed into something of a sawbones, able to identify, diagnose and treat the most common of battlefield injuries.

Hans shook the thought from his head, hesitant to linger on all the battles Henry had faced alone while Hans lived the life of a noble captive.

“Why’re you here, Hans?” Henry asked, concerned. He has such doe eyes, Hans thought absently, stupidly pretty and innocent-looking for a powerful man like him. “I don’t know how we’re going to explain this one to people.”

Anxiety sparked in Hans’ gut, a feeling not unlike being winded. “Oh, I hadn’t… I didn’t think. I can leave. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

This was one of the eventualities Hans had been trying to prepare himself for. That his actions would overstep Henry’s desires and make the man, and that he’d be too afraid to say anything.

Funny, really. Hans had quite literally lorded his noble status over anyone he could, his entire life, and now it only added to his list of problems. Not for the first time, he wondered how different things would be if their roles could change – if he could be the commoner, not tied to a duty inherited from his blue blood.

“No,” Henry broke through his spiralling thoughts, and with one look, Hans understood that the other man had read and dismissed every one of them. Had he always been so good at that? At reading Hans like a book, at understanding every unspoken word? “Don’t be stupid. If you’re not arsed about rumours, neither am I. The lot downstairs are probably too drunk to notice, anyways. Stay here?”

“Of course.” Hans swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I locked the door. And, well, Samuel is helping us. He’s told the others he asked a favour of me, to watch over you.”

“Sam asked you to come here? Christ, does that mean…” Henry didn’t finish, shaking his head. “Well, whatever. Nothing to be done about it, I guess. Could I have some water?”

Hans stood up with a slight huff, his spine protesting against the hours spent curled up around Henry’s form. He busied himself gathering water and medicine from around the room. “I’ll get Katherine and Musa in here soon, to treat you properly, but you should take these. For the pain.”

“Cheers.” Henry drank the waterskin greedily, then a second. He swallowed two vials of medicine back to back, hissing through gritted teeth.

In the centre of the room, Hans stood awkwardly, all of a sudden not quite sure what to do with his limbs. This was what he had prayed for, and it all seemed perfect while he remained in Henry’s arms. Stepping beyond the bed had brought a chill through to his bones and with it, an uncertainty he didn’t know how to handle.

It had been easier to spill his heart out when Henry was lying unconscious but by now, a familiar feeling had returned to him, an urge to run. Selfish and scared. It was nonsensical; he wanted to live the rest of his life pressed to Henry’s side, and he wanted to run for the hills and never look back if it meant not having this conversation here and now.

Henry cocked his head at him, questioning. “What’re you doing?”

“I…” Hans started, before falling short and letting out a weak chuckle. He ran his hands across his face and groaned. “I don’t know. I’ll be honest, Henry, I really don’t know.”

The squire nodded slightly, shifting his weight around to make more room on the bed. He shot Hans an expectant look and when the lord still didn’t move, patted the bed impatiently as if calling for a dog.

“Well, are you going to sit down, or what?” he asked. And in his asking, Hans noticed something, a strange tone in his voice, something he didn’t recognise. A knowing of sorts, but of what? He frowned in response, words failing him. Tension filled the room, an invisible string pulled taut. Whatever Henry was suggesting, Hans couldn’t find the meaning.

“What?” Henry repeated. “You seemed comfortable enough a few minutes ago. What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing! What’s gotten into you?” Hans snapped, the response coming out much more childish than intended. Blood rushed to his cheeks.

This was not going how he had planned. Not that he planned much at all. He’d hoped to talk this through in the great outdoors, the forest swallowing them up, making it easier to be. Logic told him that after some friendly competition hunting hares, it would be all the easier to flirt his way into Henry’s braies, and the conversation could move into something more serious from there, in the afterglow. He had not planned for another dance with death, for his fear on Henry’s behalf to make him almost burst into tears in front of a courtyard full of people.

“If I’ve done something, you only have to say. But I’m no mind reader, Sir Hans.” Henry’s voice was even, not rising to the challenge. Sir Hans. That was his title, of course, but it felt wrong in this place, with no one around to hear them. “If you’d forgotten, I only just woke up here. I’m not sure what I’m missing.”

“You’re no mind reader?” Bitter laughter erupted from Hans’ throat, surprising them both. “Whatever you say.”

“Well I’m clearly not, because you were just kissing me, and now you’re looking at me like I’ve got four arms poking out my torso.”

“Sakra, Henry, I’m not…”

“I heard you last night.” Henry interrupted. All the air seemed to leave the room. A ringing took over Hans’ ears, to the point where he questioned if the world outside had fallen silent to listen into their discussion. “Pieces of it. Thought it was a dream till I woke up with your face stuck right in front of mine.”

“You weren’t meant to.”

“Wasn’t I?” He challenged, raising an eyebrow. “I remember you ordering me about. If I care about you as my lord, or something like that. Seems pretty clear you were talking to me. But you were going to leave this morning like nothing happened.”

“Henry.” His name came out like a warning, and it took all of Hans’ self-control to not throw something at the bastard. “I wasn’t… I was not in the best place. And I thought we should, ahem, talk this through. Us. And I hadn’t meant to get carried away this morning, prior to discussing it with you. In truth, I probably shouldn’t have slept in your bed last night, so I apologise for that..”

Somewhere along the way, he’d gotten mixed up, heard his voice switch from Hans to Lord Capon, the noble heirs he was trained to put on when making a plea for diplomacy. It fit all wrong. He hated himself for it.

“Right.” Henry responded gruffly. Mutt whined, as if reminding the men of his presence. It looked to Hans that the dog was asking them to stop arguing. “So what you’re saying is you didn’t mean it?”

“What?! No!” This had gone rather terribly, and Hans was starting to panic. Fear kicked at his chest, the rabbit beating at his ribs, lungs, heart.

“Then what do you mean? Because from where I’m sitting, it’s pretty fucking clear. What happened at Suchdol happened, and you’ve avoided me since. And now something about me almost dying has made you act strangely again.”

“Avoided you?” Hans questioned, exasperated. The rabbit thumped harder. “You’ve got the wrong idea altogether. I’ve not been avoiding you for that reason.”

He crossed the room again, moving closer to the bed, daring to sit down. Henry faced the other way, fuming like a young boy, not the man Hans had come to know.

“If I’ve avoided you, Henry, it’s because I don’t know what this is. I didn’t know how to act around you, after everything. And it’s not like we’ve had a chance to be alone, is it? So don’t you think you’re being more than a bit unfair?”

Henry grumbled in acknowledgement, turning to look at Hans just slightly, eyes flickering between his dog and the other man’s face. “It just seems to me like you only want this – whatever this is – when one of us is on death’s door, or we’ve just escaped it. Like both times at Suchdol. Like now.”

Another laugh escaped before Hans could stop it, and Henry glared at him in response. God, his pout was charming. “Sorry, no - I’m not laughing at you. Or I am. Because you’re being an idiot, Hal. That injury to your head has knocked all sense out of you, if you had any in the first place.”

“Thanks.” Henry bristled in indignation and before he could continue, Hans silenced him with another kiss. He felt any sign of protest melt away against his lips, and Henry kissed him harder, hands finding purchase in the lord’s shirt and pulling him closer.

It was minutes before they spoke again, both men pulling apart for a breath with swollen lips and eyes half-lidded. Hans could taste marigold on his tongue.

The barest hint of a smile passed across Henry’s face. “You have a strange way of saying you care for me, if that’s what you’re trying to do. And we’ve got a bad habit of only kissing when things are awful.”

“And you’re being an impatient prick, not letting me get my thoughts together.” Hans replied. “Will you give me a chance and listen now?”

To his great relief, Henry nodded, a curl of brown hair falling between his eyes at the movement. Hans’ heart broke in two at the sight. Henry truly was deaf, dumb and blind to all emotion, if he couldn’t see that Hans wanted this, he thought.

“I haven’t been avoiding you out of malice. I’ll admit, I haven’t spent as much time with you as I want, but that’s only because I cannot trust myself when you’re near. Since we spent the night together, it’s all I have thought of. It was all I thought of well before that and now it’s worse, so much worse, because it actually happened. I don’t know about you, but I never thought it would happen. I haven’t spoken to you about my feelings because I still don’t have a name for them, and because I am due to be wed – against my will! – at any point in the near future.

“I haven’t dared raise it, because I’m terrified to hear you regret it. Actually, I’m just as scared you won’t regret it, because then we can’t ever go back to how we were. I won’t ever be able to be in a room with you without thinking of how much closer we could be

“And I was going to raise it, thank you very much, what do you think the hunting trip was for? Only your stupid loud mouth announced it to the whole region, and how could I have spoken about it then? Or should I have invited Zizka and Kubyenka into the discussion? I’m sure you’d love to hear their thoughts on sodomy.”

Despite himself, Henry was biting back a smirk, cheeks reddening as he realised they had both held the same hope for their hunting trip. The blacksmith was not so stubborn he couldn’t admit fault here. As he opened his mouth to speak, Hans shook his head, continuing.

“Last night was one of the worst of my life. You looked dead when we brought you here, and you wouldn’t get up. That has never happened before. I’ve fought by your side, I’ve sent you to your near-death, but I’ve never seen you so… unreachable, before. Whatever they did to you had you out cold. I thought I had lost you, and for no reason at all. Not that you died saving our lives, but that you’d taken one bad hit in the middle of a forest, arse-deep in fuck-knows-where, and that would be that, forever.

“And I realised I would not survive it. When I told you about Lancelot and Galehaut, I wasn’t just scared of you sneaking into Sigismund’s camp. I’m scared every time we fight, every time we travel, every time we do anything. Because what I feel for you isn’t just a survival instinct and the lack of a pretty wench nearby, you idiot. It’s every painful second of every shitty day, and I haven’t known how to say that until now. I don’t have the words, still, but there. Are you happy now?”

A long silence settled over the room, broken only by the heaving breaths Hans let out to steady himself. That was not the confession he had planned. He had written a poem down somewhere, actually, in case flirting had failed him. This was a different beast altogether; angrier, more desperate, almost pleading. He cleared his throat a few times, trying to regain his composure. 

Henry broke into a real smile, moving his hands to cup Hans’ face, pulling the lord towards him and kissing his forehead, his nose, his cheeks. “That your speech finished, then?”

“Fuck you.” Hans cursed, pushing at Henry’s shoulder weakly.

“Seems like you have a lot of words for all the words you apparently don’t have.” Henry countered and Hans scowled at him. “But I think I’ve got the words for it. I think you do too – you just can’t admit it, stubborn arse that you are.”

“What?” Hans asked, dumbly. “I say all of that, and you tell me you have the answer I’ve been looking for? God, Henry, when did you get such a God-forsaken ego?”

“Shut up.” Henry scolded, pulling back to look Hans in the eyes once more. “Are you gonna listen to me now?”

“If I must.” Hans snarked pathetically, cheeks warming under the scrutiny of Henry’s gaze.

“I love you. And I think you love me. Not as you’d love a friend or a comrade or a mentor, but the love they talk about in all those poems you noble sods read. That’s the only word that makes sense. And what we’re doing is not only a sin, God forgive us, but a crime that’ll see us hanging from the gallows. But I don’t have it in me to care. As far as I’m concerned, the gates to Hell could open up and take me now, and it’d still be worth it. If the executioner came knocking, I would haul you over my shoulder and make a run for it, broken ribs and all.”

Henry looked at Hans expectedly, those doe eyes staring right through him. Not a mind reader, he said. Hans realised that he has either never met a better liar, or that Henry has no real idea how deeply Hans feels for him. Stupid, stupid blacksmith’s boy.

“Well?” Henry said. The tremor in his voice gave away his fear, and it was all Hans could do to not kiss him senseless again. “A response would be nice, y’know, milord.”

“Don’t call me that here, you yokel.” Hans pulled the other man closer, pressing Henry’s head into his shoulder. He ran his fingers through Henry’s hair, not caring one bit about the blood. Love, he tested in his mind. Terrible, he thought, to realise that Henry was right. His breath hitched somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “Don’t get used to hearing this, but fine. Fine. You’re right.”

“So you love me?” Henry mumbled the question against Hans’ shirt. “Like Lancelot loved Galehaut, like the story your minstrel told you?” 

“I do.”

“Say it then, you arsehole.” Henry pushed up and forced Hans to hold his gaze. Stubborn as ever, even now. 

“I love you.” He admitted, and the dam inside him broke. God, how he loved him. Hans would steal Henry away from the world if he could. He’d never be apart from him, he would refuse to enter another room without Henry following by his side. He’d never enter another room altogether if the world insisted they must part. He’d move to the woods, learn to build a shack for them both with his own two hands, if it would grant them the peace they deserved. “I love you, and if you ever get injured like that again, I’ll kill you myself.”

“Pft,” Henry sputtered out a laugh. In the morning light, the tears pricking at his blue eyes resembled what Hans imagined the ocean would look like. “I’d like to see you try.”

Hans laughed in earnest, pulling Henry into a kiss. He fought the urge to bite Henry’s lip and tried to kiss him gently, like a man in love – for that’s what he was. Not a man on the brink of death, for once, and nor was Henry. 

A rumbling sound left Henry’s throat, one of his strong, beautiful hands grabbing at Hans’ waist. Hans laughed against his lips. “You paw at me like a peasant.”

“And you’re the noble who fell in love with a peasant, Capon.” Warm lips brushed along Hans’ bruised jaw, against the cut across his cheek. “So I’d think twice before you start insulting me again.”

“Come on, you can’t –” Henry’s lips had found that spot underneath his ear again, and Hans’ breath hitched anew. His squire was a quick study with a sharp memory, and lest he forget it. “You can’t expect me to stop insulting you, just because I’ve said the words.”

“Can I not?” Henry asked, teeth biting gently at the skin. Oh, how Hans loved him.

“No. If I stopped insulting you when I started loving you, I’d have changed my tune long ago.” It was another confession, of sorts. What a blessing to have someone understand him so well that he needn’t explain it further. “And Henry – Henry, as much as what you’re doing is fantastic, I don’t think it’s recommended with broken ribs.”

Henry huffed again, petulant. “Since when are you a sawbones?”

“I’m not. But I promised your brother I’d look after you, and if we start now, you’ll have broken two more ribs by the time I’m done with you.” Arrogance returned to his tone, a haughtiness befitting his station.

Henry’s eyebrows shot skywards, bright blue eyes darkening as he no doubt pictured one of the many ideas Hans had in mind. A flush spread across his cheeks, turning him from bruised warrior to blushing wench in a matter of seconds.

“Well,” A breeze blew through the room, a veritable gift from God to cool both their burning faces. “You’d better start looking for that private place you promised us in Suchdol, sir.”

Hans pushed Henry back on the bed gently, shifted himself onto the bed to curl against him once more, cheek resting lightly on Henry’s shoulder. He pressed a kiss to the skin there, above the bandages.
“Don’t call me that here, Hal. Just Hans, all right?”

“All right, Just Hans.” Henry chuckled at his own joke, turning to bury his face in Hans’ hair.

“You’re terribly unfunny.”

“Aye, and a peasant, and a yokel, and an arse, and a blacksmith’s boy, and least of all, the man you love.” Henry rubbed it in, pride warming his voice. “Right, now we’ve got all that out the way, what do you say to a few more hours’ sleep?”

Hans nodded. Sleep sounded good. He should really get Katherine and Musa and Godwin and Zizka and the rest, the whole adoring crowd who each cared for Henry in their own special way.

But Hans was selfish, and he didn’t care. Henry was not in pain, at least not enough to warrant his complaints, and his hand felt so right resting on Hans’ waist. Henry had asked for sleep, and that was what he was going to get.

In another world, Hans would steal him away. He would make true to his deepest desires and never leave Henry’s side. They would spend their years joined at the hip, with no wars or weddings to pull them apart. Henry had found them the words, presented them to Hans like a gift, and it hadn’t taken them coming to blows to find it. That was, by all measures that mattered, a success. He was a man in love; no longer the young boy running from bathhouse to bathhouse in search of temporary fun. Hans had found the person he wanted most, and it would take some incredible force of nature for him to let go.

Yes, Hans thought, as he felt Henry’s breathing slow and gentle snores began to fill the room. The rest could wait.