Chapter Text
For a long while, Bartosch existed in a feverish haze of the many shades of pain. Everything from dull throbbing to sharp stabbing to urgent burning—every moment awake brought only agonizing sensation, from which his only escape was his dreams. But those brought with them their own torments, too. Shadowy figures brandishing knives and hammers and tongs, an endless feeling of oppressive dread and immobilizing terror. A voice, screaming in anguish, close enough to touch if Bartosch wasn’t frozen in place, unable to offer any meagre comforts. The nightmares would then startle him awake, where a fresh wave of physical afflictions inevitably greeted him.
And the cycle repeated, over and over and over again.
Eventually, though, other things began to register in the few lucid moments that remained in his memory. The cool relief of fresh water in his parched throat, the burst of flavour accompanying a plain soup or a numbing wine. A gentle, familiar touch in his hair, on his face, wiping sweat and tears from his skin. Whispered assurances and a quiet voice, humming a lilting melody.
After what felt like both too long and not enough time, Bartosch slowly regained consciousness.
The first thing he became aware of was the voices, eyelids still too heavy to open. One was immediately recognizable as the person who had haunted his dreams and waking moments alike: Hans. The other one took a few more moments to place, but he eventually realized it was Henry.
“The main thing is, you got out,” Hans was saying. “I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to thank you properly for coming to Maleshov for us.”
“Well, you can easily rectify that here and now,” Henry responded with an amused chuckle.
“And that’s exactly what I intend to do, my brave and faithful companion,” Hans said, voice warm. Bartosch, just beginning to stir with wakefulness, stilled at the words, held captive by the affection in Hans’s voice. “First and foremost, be it known that if you ever similarly find yourself in captivity, I swear before our Lord Jesus Christ that I shall come for you as you came for me. And secondly… I have something here for you.” Footsteps crossed the room, followed by a scraping thud and some rustling. “A truly knightly reward for your knightly deed: a hunting bow that has no equal in the province. I hope it will brighten your thoughts after all those horrors.”
Henry took in a sharp, admiring breath. The bow must have been impressive to garner such a reaction. Something pitiful and ugly stirred in Bartosch’s gut. “I’m honoured,” Henry said, voice low. “Thank you, friend.”
Unable to bear the tension any longer, Bartosch coughed, finally opening sticky eyelids to squint up at an unfamiliar wooden ceiling. “Where…” he managed to croak out, before his vision was invaded by the worried form of an all-too-familiar young noble.
“You’re awake!” Hans exclaimed, relief, excitement, and concern warring for conquest across the aristocratic planes of his face. Concern won out in the end, and he reached out with firm but careful hands, helping Bartosch to sit up against the headboard. “How are you feeling? Do you want any water? Food?”
“Er,” Bartosch managed before Hans was joined at his bedside by Henry, who looked equally concerned and was holding out a tankard that appeared to contain water rather than ale.
“I’m glad to see you back in the land of the living, Sir Bartosch,” Henry said, smiling openly. “Sir Hans was very worried about you.”
“Thank you,” Bartosch said automatically, accepting the tankard. He took a slow sip, taking in his new surroundings. The three of them were in a somewhat cramped room, twice as long as it was wide, with two beds other than the one he was currently occupying spaced evenly throughout. They were in some sort of inn, it would seem, and judging by the run-down state of some of the furnishings, none too extravagant of one. “And thank you both for the timely rescue from Maleshov, as well. That is—that was you two I remember dragging me through a tunnel, right?”
Henry’s face brightened. “I wasn’t sure you’d recall; Von Bergow really did a number on you.”
“Well, that I certainly recall,” Bartosch muttered.
“Speaking of: how are your wounds faring, my friend?” Hans interjected.
Bartosch considered this, taking stock of his injuries. Everything still hurt, but the more superficial of his injuries were beginning to itch—a sure sign of healing. And at least he was no longer delirious with fever. Since the infection had gone, things were looking up, logically speaking.
Illogically speaking, though…
Bartosch frowned down at his sword hand. It was the most heavily bandaged part of him besides, he suspected, the wound in his leg, which was concealed by the sheets covering up his lower half but still throbbed in constant reminder. The bandaging was so severe that his hand looked practically encased in a particularly unfashionable glove. He remembered the pain: the crushing, unrelenting blows of the hammer, the fresh stabbing sensations as his fingernails were ripped from the beds, the persistent agony of dangling from the shattered bones of his wrist. It was a miracle that the limb was still attached to his body.
“In all truthfulness, I had expected to look down and see the aftermath of an amputation of one or both of my afflicted limbs,” Bartosch confessed with forced lightness, “so I suppose I can’t complain. Besides that, everything seems to be on the mend.”
Henry and Hans exchanged a sombre look. A heavy silence descended over the room until Henry cleared his throat. “I’ll get you some wine for the pain,” he said, standing up, flashing Bartosch another of his reassuring smiles. “It really is good to see you awake and lucid, Sir Bartosch.” Then Henry left the room, closing the door behind him.
“… Well, that was rather ominous,” Bartosch remarked. “What’s the bad news, then?”
Hans pursed his lips, folding his hands tightly. “Well, alright,” he said haltingly, fidgeting with his fingers. “So the thing is, originally, Henry and I were planning to take you to Suchdol for treatment. But on the way, we ran into none other than my uncle and Radzig—that is, Radzig Kobyla, Lord of Skalitz and Royal Hetman to King Wenceslas and Henry’s father. Turns out, there was a gathering of Wenceslas supporters in Raborsch, so my uncle insisted we go there instead. There was a physician there, who examined you and had some… rather unpleasant revelations to make.”
Bartosch had seen similar injuries on the battlefield, though he had until now been fortunate and skilled enough to avoid such wounds and the life-changing consequences thereof. “I think I can hazard an educated guess,” Bartosch said ruefully. “My hand may never heal, or if it does, it will never regain full functionality again. Does that about sum it up?”
Hans stilled, hands falling limply to his sides. “Yes,” he said quietly. It was only to be expected; hands were as fragile as they were valuable, and Bartosch had seen other knights with far less gruesome injuries rendered unable to wield a sword again. At least he had made it out of Maleshov with his life. Not every knight could say the same after betraying their liege lord.
The silence following Hans’s confirmation loomed, dark and leaden, before it was broken by Hans saying in a small voice, “I-I’m so sorry.”
“Whatever for?” Bartosch asked, tilting his head. “You weren’t the one wielding the hammer.”
Hans scoffed, rubbing furiously at his eyes as he turned his head away. “You know what for,” he snapped, voice wet. “If you hadn’t tried to rescue me, none of this would have happened. Why in God’s name would you do such a thing?”
Ah, right. Of course Hans would blame himself for actions Bartosch had taken entirely of his own volition. What a contradictory, confusing, brilliant man he was.
No wonder Bartosch was in love with him.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, taking his breath away. Somehow, after a lifetime of warning himself away from impractical, nonsensical sentiments, Bartosch had fallen in love. With Hans Capon, nonetheless—a man who, despite his aloof, arrogant exterior, was brave and honourable and in love with someone else.
God truly must have a sense of humour.
“Well?” Hans asked, jolting Bartosch out of his regrettably timed epiphany. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Despite his watery, reddened eyes and the tremor of his voice, Hans still managed to affect an air of expectant haughtiness which should have been exasperating. Instead, Bartosch only found himself all the more enamoured.
Bartosch didn’t really have anything to say in his defence, though, so he just shrugged. “I’m only sorry it didn’t succeed,” he said simply, “and that it put you in an even worse position.”
Hans made a choked sort of noise. “Don’t you dare apologize for that,” he said firmly. “You were being tortured. Any information I gave up to Von Bergow is on me. In fact, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had just left me to rot. After that night, and those things I said to you…”
“None of which I blame you for, either,” Bartosch hastened to say. “Actually, I wanted to apologize to you for that, too. I regret that I took advantage of your situation, however unintentional it was on my part. And for the harsh words I said to you during our last night. I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me.”
“What—no! No, you dolt. I’m the one who’s supposed to be apologizing to you!”
Confused, Bartosch tilted his head. “As I’ve said, you are not to blame for anything that Von Bergow did to me.”
Hans huffed in frustration, running an agitated hand through his hair. “Not that. Well, not exactly that, anyway. I just—I wanted to say, I’m sorry. For my taking advantage of you, and manipulating you into helping me. Because of me, you’ve been branded a sodomite and a traitor. For Christ’s sake, you can’t even wield a sword anymore.” Bartosch opened his mouth to protest, but Hans held up a hand and barrelled on, “And you didn’t take advantage of me, just to set things straight. You were right—I did want it. I wanted you. Your company, your presence… I think I would have gone mad in that tower otherwise. When we fought, and I said those terrible things… I didn’t mean it. I was just so angry. So, I’m sorry for that, too.”
A hollow pit of creeping dread formed in Bartosch’s gut. Was Hans really saying that… “… Everything we did together in Maleshov,” Bartosch said slowly in apprehensive realization. “Was that all because you wanted me to betray Von Bergow from the start?”
“What?!” Hans reared back, eyes wide with panic. “No—I mean—shit. God’s wounds, this is all going terribly. Bartosch, I care about you; I swear, I never set out to deceive you. I just—”
Ah. The hollow feeling dissipated, replaced by something much lighter.
“So, you were not trying to seduce me to help you escape.”
“No!” Hans denied immediately, scandalized. “Of course not!”
“And yet, you believe you are somehow inadvertently responsible for manipulating me into turning against my lord?”
“Don’t speak to me like I’m daft,” Hans protested, pouting. It was very adorable. “It’s an entirely reasonable belief!”
Bartosch’s lips quirked. “Well, I’m sorry to disabuse you of whatever notions you have about your seductive prowess,” he said drily, “but my choice to free you was, in fact, made entirely free of duress.” He paused, then amended, “Well, at least free of duress from you.”
Hans looked torn between indignation and confusion. The latter narrowly won out. “So, then? Something else happened that spurred you into gallant action?”
“While I’m flattered you think so highly of me, it was not so noble as you make it sound,” Bartosch replied, wincing. Really, the whole thing was rather humiliating to reflect on, but Hans deserved to know the full extent of the machinations behind his rescue attempt. So he continued, “After our argument, Von Bergow tried to order me to grow close to you and convince you to turn over any information you had on your allies.” Bartosch pursed his lips in grim amusement at the unpleasant memory. “Terribly ironic, as it was the very plot you had just accused me of partaking in. When I refused, I suppose he became suspicious and planted rumours of Hanush of Leipa refusing to pay ransom for your safe return, hoping to weed out my potential disloyalty by indirectly threatening your wellbeing.”
A look of realization dawned on Hans’s face. “So that was the letter from Rattay you and that pompous arse were talking about?” he asked.
“The very one,” Bartosch confirmed. “So you see, the only person manipulating me into betraying Von Bergow was Von Bergow himself. He only succeeded because, as I’ve told you before, I care about you, too. I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if anything had happened to you while I could have prevented it.”
Hans stared at him for several excruciatingly silent moments—long enough that Bartosch began to wonder if he had said too much. He should have been less direct. Of course such intense sentiments were unnerving for Hans, who was hardly in a place to reciprocate Bartosch’s emotions, not that he would even if he hadn’t been infatuated with another man, and—
“You were wrong, earlier,” Hans told Bartosch, matter-of-fact, interrupting the spiral of his thoughts, “when you said I thought too highly of you. The full story is exactly as noble as I made it sound, perhaps even more so. I don’t know how I can ever repay my debt to you.”
“Well, considering I failed to free you and you had to instead rescue me, I would say there is no debt at all to be paid,” Bartosch pointed out. “Rather the opposite, actually.”
Hans scowled at him. “Sir Bartosch?”
“Yes?”
“Stop talking,” Hans ordered, and then leaned over and kissed him.
Well, there was little to be said in response to that. So instead, Bartosch simply kissed Hans back, lips slotting together somewhat clumsily in their haste. He couldn’t stop smiling if he tried, and from the way Hans was grinning against him, it was clear he felt the same way.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Hans breathed when they separated, cradling Bartosch’s jaw with his hands as though something precious lay within. “I was so worried. I still am. Your hand…”
“I’m just glad Von Bergow didn’t do anything to you,” Bartosch said, voice low. He turned his head into Hans’s gentle touch and smiled when Hans huffed out a laugh at the undoubtedly ticklish sensation of his now unruly beard. “I will say, however: it is rather inconvenient for a bodyguard and knight to be down his sword hand.” A sense of melancholy and dread washed over him at the realization that his career was likely over. Bartosch had absolutely no idea what he would do with his life moving forward, now that he had burned all of the bridges available to him. “I suppose a change in livelihood is warranted,” he sighed. “Not that any lord would want a known traitor and sodomite in their service anyway.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Hans said, smirking, “I can think of at least one lord…”
“I’m not sure the services you’re referring to are the same ones I’m thinking of,” Bartosch laughed.
“I think you’d be surprised,” Hans said with a lascivious wink, before he kissed Bartosch again, deeper this time, and with far more suggestive intent than the chaste, celebratory affair of moments ago. Bartosch moaned in surprise, his good hand reaching up to rest on the back of Hans’s neck, fingers stroking through the short hairs. He felt Hans shiver in response, pressing closer. The thin mattress dipped and the wooden bedframe creaked as Hans climbed up to join him. His hands burned heated trails across Bartosch’s skin as they wandered, from his face and down his neck to his bare chest. There they rested, archery-calloused fingers splayed over his heart, feeling the rise and fall of Bartosch’s breathing and the quickening pulse beneath his skin.
There was a knock on the door.
Hans leapt into the air, all but throwing himself across the room with an undignified yelp. Just in time, too, as with barely any hesitation, Henry was pushing the door open, cheerfully wielding a leather wineskin.
“I’ve got your wine, Sir Bartosch,” he said, crossing the room. “Sorry for the wait—Žižka wanted to speak to me about something and I lost track of time for a bit.” Then, noticing Hans and Bartosch’s flushed and dishevelled states, he frowned. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, perfectly fine, my faithful squire,” Hans said, voice pitched slightly higher than normal as he adjusted his pourpoint. It did not escape Bartosch’s notice that he paid particular attention to the way the fabric was arranged in front of his crotch. “I’ll just. Go and be somewhere else for now.” And with that eloquent excuse deployed, he fled the room.
Bartosch and Henry stared after him.
“… Thank you for the wine, Henry,” Bartosch said after an awkward moment, taking the wineskin from the perplexed squire.
“You’re welcome,” Henry said, shaking off his confusion and rewarding Bartosch with that guileless smile of his. “Sorry about Sir Hans, I don’t know what’s gotten into him. I’m sure he’ll give you a proper welcome later, though!”
Bartosch tried not to smirk too much. “Of course,” he agreed slyly. "I'll look forward to it, then."
Recovery was slow. Realistically, Bartosch knew it would be, but even then, he was not prepared for how quickly the monotony of his infirm state would begin to weigh on him. Bartosch had been injured before in the line of duty, but never to the point where he couldn’t even get out of bed. It was utterly miserable. And if the boredom weren’t enough, the constant damned itching was enough to drive a man to tears. The worst part was, if he shifted too suddenly or too much, the ever-present pain came screaming back to the forefront of his senses, his most severe wounds clamouring to remind him of his body’s still-fragile state.
In a strange parallel to Maleshov, Bartosch’s most frequent visitor during his days of medically required confinement was by far Hans.
Actually, ‘visitor’ was not the correct term, considering Bartosch had discovered not long after his first truly lucid episode that he, Hans, and Henry were, in fact, sharing a room. Most days, Hans was just… there. Chattering away about some event or another, filling Bartosch in on what he had missed while insensate (which was, apparently, a lot), pestering him with an old, chipped chess set or a dubiously acquired set of dice, or reading. Hans had a great many books stored away in his chest and was more than happy to lend Bartosch some of his collection. Much of it was amusing, bawdy poetry, the likes of which Bartosch typically overlooked in his literary ventures. But Hans had kept and stored away these books, finding some meaning within their worn pages, and so Bartosch read them.
Bartosch appreciated Hans’s company all the more, knowing just how much the noble actually resented being confined indoors, which had worsened after his extended stint in captivity. Hans did take frequent trips outside, but he only ever left Bartosch alone for two or so hours at most, when he rode out to stretch his and his horse’s legs. When, during a particularly entertaining tale of one of Hans’s favourite hunting trips, Bartosch had suggested he take a few days away from his bedside to go on a similar excursion, Hans had just given him a confused and mildly condescending look.
“Well, clearly, you aren’t an avid hunter,” he had scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Otherwise, you would be well aware that hunts are much more enjoyable with the company of a friend. I’ll save my hunting for after you’ve recovered, not to worry.” And that was that.
Henry was his second most frequent visitor. Bartosch had learned that, besides the nearby apothecary, Henry was by far the most proficient healer in the vicinity, and so the squire checked up on Bartosch’s injuries often. Apparently, Henry had actually been the one to remove the bolt from Bartosch’s leg. He had packed the wound, disinfected it, applied a healing poultice, and bandaged it, all while on the road to Raborsch. When Bartosch had asked where Henry had picked up such skills, Henry had simply shrugged and told him that he did a lot of reading.
Another of his guests was none other than Vauquelin Brabant, who had stopped by to thank Bartosch for his role in freeing him.
“After what you did for me that day, you may count me among your friends,” the Frenchman said with an elaborate bow. “I, Vauquelin Brabant, chevalier, aventurieur, et voyageur, am at your service, mon brave Bartosch. In fact, in your honour, I have named my new horse after you!”
Hans, who stood just behind Brabant, looked as though he was stifling laughter.
“I am very honoured, chevalier,” Bartosch said pleasantly. “And it is truly a fortuitous coincidence that we have managed to end up in the same place in the end.”
“For that, we must thank our kind friend Henri ! It was he who pointed me in the direction of this, eh, shall we say, fine establishment. Ah, but he made excellent use of the information I provided him on Maleshov to aid in your rescue, did he not? It reminds me of the time I, as well as my small company of men, had been captured by the English—”
“Pardon the interruption, Chevalier Brabant, but Henry asked for my input on something earlier, and I’ve already kept him waiting,” Hans interjected before the loquacious man could truly get going. “I’m sure Sir Bartosch will be very interested to hear of your tales, however!”
Ignoring the dirty look Bartosch shot him when Brabant wasn’t looking, Hans gave a cheery little wave and backed out of the room. Traitor.
Bartosch received few other visitors during the rest of his mandated week of bed rest. The other guests of the Devil’s Den, as Hans had told him, were members of a band of scoundrels called ‘the Devil’s Pack’. He was yet to have the dubious pleasure of meeting any of them, as they were hardly interested in the infirm turncoat that Henry and Hans had taken pity on and brought in like some sort of stray. He was, however, visited by a certain enemy of his previous lord’s and a man he had faced several times before on the battlefield: Jan Žižka.
The man had simply walked in during one of Hans’s absences, crossing the room and standing above Bartosch with his arms crossed and eyes narrowed, staring him down inscrutably. Bartosch recognized him immediately, even with the fresh scar slicing a thin, reddened line over his left eye. Not easily cowed, Bartosch simply stared back, raising an expectant brow while he waited for the bandit to say his piece.
“I must say, when Henry went off to rescue his lord, I didn’t expect him to return with one of Von Bergow’s dogs, much less a wounded one,” Žižka said eventually, breaking the silence. Then he smiled without humour. “Though that boy is full of surprises. But tell me, Lord Bartoschek of Drahonitz—just what kind of surprise do you fancy yourself to be?”
“Times must surely be dire if the bandit captain, infamous for ransacking his way through Bohemia, entertains the notion of a crippled knight as harbouring the possibility of being an unpleasant surprise,” Bartosch remarked.
“You and I both know, Sir Bartosch, that a man’s worth is weighed by far more than his ability to fight battles,” Žižka retorted, mouth drawing into a stern line. None too pleased at Bartosch’s idle musings, it seemed. “I shall speak plainly, since you seem to enjoy the theatrics of indirectness: times are indeed dire. We are at war and we intend to strike against Sigismund and your previous master, and soon. So I must know: will your life be a liability to us? Because I’m of half a mind to end it right now, if so.”
Bartosch hummed thoughtfully, leaning back against the old bedrest. It caused splinters to dig uncomfortably into his shoulders, but well, Žižka wasn’t wrong. He did enjoy theatrics, after all. “That depends. Will I be a drain on your resources while my injuries recover? More than likely. Will my presence among your ragtag band make Von Bergow all the more eager to seek you out? Quite possibly.” Bartosch met Žižka’s eyes then, finally allowing his pleasant half-smile to fade. “Would I rather you kill me right now than crawl back to Von Bergow with my tail tucked? The answer is yes, without the slightest hesitation.”
At his sincerity, Žižka’s brows raised slightly in the barest hint of surprise. “Dogs don’t usually turn on their masters with such fervour,” he noted.
“True enough,” Bartosch agreed, “but even the mangiest mutt will bite a hand that has already proven capable of striking them.”
Žižka’s moustache twitched in faint amusement. “Then I will look forward to when this mutt has healed well enough to bare his fangs,” he drawled, before he turned on his heel and left.
By the end of the week, Bartosch was sore, itchy, and thoroughly bored of resting. It was with eager trepidation that he agreed to attempt a small excursion to the tables downstairs and outside the inn. Just getting up from the bed he had been stewing in for the past several days caused his leg to spasm, a burning sensation racing up his spine with the fury of a wildfire. Bartosch bit back a curse, quickly adjusting his weight until the searing pain faded into a dull throb. Then he took a step, and the cycle repeated.
Hans had to help him down the stairs, but Bartosch managed the rest of the journey on his own. He was therefore tired and satisfied in equal measure when he finally lowered himself onto one of the outdoor tables, breathing a sigh of relief. Feeling the warmth of sunlight on his skin again after so long was a blessed reprieve.
A few other men were drinking and conversing nearby, not at all shy with their curious, assessing, or outright hostile gazes. Bartosch wondered which ones were official members of the Devil’s Pack, and which were simple mercenaries passing through. He received his answer moments later when a few men approached the table where he and Hans were seated.
“Young Hans!” said one of the men, an older gentleman with a genial demeanour. He donned light armour and a black cap. “So this is the companion from Maleshov we’ve heard so much about, is it?”
“Godwin! Just the man I was looking for,” Hans said with a grin. He nodded to the other two men, noticeably cooler. “Kubyenka, Samuel. This is Lord Bartoschek of Drahonitz, my good friend and would-be-saviour, if it hadn’t been for Von Bergow’s machinations.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Bartosch said, inclining his head as the other men sat around them. “And it’s just Bartosch among friends. I owe you all a great debt for graciously hosting me after our escape.”
“Is it true what Žižka and Henry say, that you were Von Bergow’s bodyguard?” Samuel asked, cutting in before any more pleasantries could be exchanged. He sat stiffly, arms crossed and eyes cold. There was a simmering anger to his voice that made the hairs on the back of Bartosch’s neck prickle with wariness.
“You certainly don’t mince any words,” Hans muttered, scoffing.
“Mincing words is for nobles and liars,” Samuel returned with vitriol, and the two of them traded icy glares. Clearly, there was an antagonistic history there.
“I was indeed Von Bergow’s bodyguard for a time,” Bartosch agreed affably, unfazed at the suddenly tense atmosphere. “Though if you are concerned with my allegiance, I will assure you, as I did your captain, that I have no desire to return to the man responsible for my torture.”
Samuel frowned, expression giving nothing away. He was somehow even more unreadable than the bandit captain himself. “Hm,” was all he said, before he stood and went back inside the inn.
“Er, forgive his shortness, Sir Bartosch,” Godwin hurried to say in Samuel’s wake. “He has a bit of a bone to pick with your previous lord.”
“Then we have that in common,” Bartosch said, “though I can hardly begrudge a man his suspicions. May I ask what it is he is so eager to seek vengeance for?”
Kubyenka, who had yet to speak, explained, “Well, the Jewish Quarter in Kuttenberg was sacked while you were getting your beauty sleep, and his people had to run for the hills. The boy’s had it out for Sigismund and his lot ever since.”
Bartosch winced. “I’d heard about that.” Hans had filled him in, and even without much detail, the events sounded horrific. “In that case, his anger is certainly justified.”
“It was a massacre,” Kubyenka agreed solemnly, voice heavy. “It was a good thing Henry and I were there—we managed to put the fear of God into those bastards, but it was still too late.”
As if summoned by the mention of his name, from the forest to the east of the inn came the sound of galloping hooves. In tandem, the four of them turned their heads just in time to observe Henry emerging from the trees on his faithful grey mare. He perked up when he saw them, waving from a distance.
“Sir Hans!” Henry shouted. “I managed to find those materials you wanted!”
“Henry!” Hans exclaimed, a radiant smile breaking out across his face. He nearly leapt up from his seat, fellow conversationalists entirely forgotten. Bartosch felt a bitter, sour sensation beginning to rear its head: jealousy. The writhing monster only sank its fangs deeper as Hans turned back toward their group with an apologetic expression. “Sorry fellas, I’ve some hunting to do. Godwin, could you make sure Bartosch gets back to his room later?”
“Handing me off like a child, are you now?” Bartosch said mildly, somehow succeeding in keeping the bitterness out of his voice and passing the remark off as a joke. But Hans didn’t respond, already hurrying away to greet his squire.
Godwin sighed as the two met, Henry dismounting to speak to Hans at eye level. “Thick as thieves, those two are,” he said affectionately.
Weren’t they just, Bartosch thought, eyes stuck on the sight of Hans and Henry’s heads bowed close together in gleeful conspiracy as they headed towards where Hans’s horse was tethered. He kept watching until they turned the corner, vanishing together out of his sight.