you did not light me
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“They’ve got Bartosch in the dungeons,” Henry says, coming to stand next to Hans on the wooden battlements of Nebakov. There’s still dried blood on his bottom lip, one half of it swollen and split. It throws off the usual symmetry of Hans’ slightly downturned mouth, and exaggerates the exhaustion starting to settle on them both.
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- Part 1 of you did not light me
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Hans is rapidly starting to hate Ruthard Palace. He’s sick of staring at nothing but the Ruthard’s dour decorative choices, the same miserable colours and motifs in Kuttenberg that he’d had plenty of time to grow weary of in Maleshov. He’s sick of not being able to say this with the would-be scion of the Ruthards somehow always within earshot, lest he cause offence. He's sick of Brabant, who he’s now spent far too much time with and has heard every one of his stories at least twice. He’s sick of Žižka and Hynek cutting him out of conversations, out of decisions, out of his rightful place at the table.
He’s been here for barely three days, but if he has to remain within these four walls for even ten minutes more, he’s going to lose his mind.
Henry co-ordinates a jailbreak to give Hans a small reprieve from his effective house arrest, and Hans gets a glimpse into what Henry was doing in Kuttenberg while he was being held in Maleshov.
Series
- Part 2 of you did not light me
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The few weeks since Suchdol have been kind, and Hans finds it hardly even bothers him now. It’s little more than an irritation. The bone-deep fear of the siege is now thoroughly overshadowed by warm, indulgent days of eating, drinking, fucking. He could dredge it all up, all the dread and despair, but why would he? Why wouldn’t he let it lie and simply enjoy the last hazy summer days, here with Henry?
Series
- Part 3 of you did not light me