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The square erupted into chaos, shouts reverberating off the stone walls of the execution square as people surged forward, elbowing and shoving to get a better look at their fallen lord. Men and women stood on tiptoes, craning their necks, their faces masks of dread and anticipation. Was Von Bergow still drawing breath, sprawled on the ground, or were their lives—everything they had known—about to change?
The thought curdled in his gut—because Hans knew that his life too was tied to Von Bergow’s as surely as the noose still tight around his neck was to the gallows. If the royal councilor drew no breath, neither would he.
Desperation surged inside him, a tight and writhing knot choking the faint hope that rose in him mare moments ago. He needed Von Bergow to live. But what if he didn’t? What if this was it—an ending not of fire and sword bu t that of a lowly criminal?
The lord’s remaining soldiers pushed through the gates and into the square, more shouts and squeals of frightened horses mixed with clatter of hooves on the cobblestone adding to the clamor. The guards barked commands, trying to shove the gawkers aside to reach the wounded.
"Calm yourselves, people!” Chamberlain Ulrich’s voice rose above the others “Guards, protect our Lord Von Bergow! Someone call for Magda and her girls from the bathhouse—they can tend to the wounded! And where is Father Nicodemus!?"
Hans’ vision blurred, the world reduced to shifting shapes and the burn of twilight in his eyes. He could see nothing but the mottled sky, bruised purples and fading golds, smell nothing but the stench of horseshit and his own sweat and taste the iron tang of his own blood where one of his guards had decked him across the face earlier. His thoughts skittered, a cornered rat in his mind. What if Von Bergow never stood again? What if the only mercy the crowd offered him was to look away when the stump gave, his lifeless body swinging from the gallows, forgotten, like he didn’t matter?
The noise rose and fell in waves with the relentless thud of his own frightened blood pulsing in his ears. His name echoed through the din, distant as if through layers of heavy cloth. He moved sluggishly, turning his head carefully— rough rope biting into his skin, pressing into his larynx and choking. His wrists were raw where his bindings cut into flesh, and he balanced precariously on that cursed stump. His knees quaked, trembling with effort to keep himself upright.
“Hans!” He heard the shout and struggled to follow the sound. His eyes searched, and there—amidst the mob—he spotted Henry. His friend finally wrenched himself free from the guards' hold, threw himself into the crowd, and pushed through, shoving bodies aside. To get to the platform. To get to him. The sight sent a twist through his chest, a sharp, desperate rise of hope rearing its head again.
“Hal…” he tried to call out, but his voice stuck in his throat, choked by the noose’s tight grip. He clung to the sight of Henry as he shoved through the last of the guards and barreled onto the platform, eyes blazing. Henry lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Hans’ legs for support. Dependable. Stable.. Hans dragged in a breath, the first in what felt like ages, as he leaned into him.
“What are you waiting for?” Henry snarled, and it took Hans a moment to realize it wasn't meant for him but for the hangman, who stood frozen, gawking at the chaos below.
“Didn’t you hear Von Bergow? Take him down, now!” Henry barked, his voice sharp as the steel of his sword. Another shiver rattled through Hans, his skin prickling at the anger and urgency in Henry’s tone. He had only ever heard such venom in Henry’s voice when he spoke of Ishtvan Toth.
The hangman lumbered forward, his hands fumbling at the bindings as though the rope burned him. The cord tightened around his throat again.
“Fucking hell,” Henry growled, his voice low and close, his breath hot against Hans’ ribs. "Were you born with two left hands? Cut him off—or better yet, give me that knife and scram!"
The hangman stammered, tripped over his own feet, and Henry’s arms tightened around his middle. Hans couldn’t see, but he felt the binds pulling, and heard the grating sound of the knife against the twine, as Henry hacked at it with jerking motions.
It was not a dignified release. The rope snapped, and Henry all but dragged him off the stool and platform, their bodies tumbling in a heap into the muddy ground behind the rough wooden planks. Hidden from the crowd, Hans crawled forward, his hands scrabbling desperately at the cord still biting into his neck, bound fingers raw and useless against the tight coils.
“Here, I’ve got you.” Henry’s voice cut through the fog of panic, and a rough hand slid under the rope, pulling at the knot until it finally—finally—gave way. The noose loosened and fell away, and Hans sucked in air, each breath a ragged, scraping victory. He hung over the ground on all fours, coughing through the painful gulps of air. Truly a noble picture.
His vision blurred, and it took him a moment to realize the wetness in his eyes. Tears, hot and unbidden.
“There now,” Henry said, gently, even if his own voice was tight as if he pulled the rope from around his own neck too “You’re alright.” His hand stayed at the nape of Hans’ neck, rubbing small, soothing circles, and Hans let himself sag into the touch. A broken sound escaped him, and he all but flung himself against Henry, burying his face into his friend’s shoulder and breathing him in.
“Fuck, fuck. Fuck!” The words spilled out, hoarse and cracked, as he pressed his eyes shut, fighting the tremors and the clammy sweat creeping across his skin. His whole body shook, his breaths shallow and sharp.
“I’ve got you” Henry murmured, his arms a vise around him, solid and clinging. Not letting him go. Hans breathed him in, and the familiar stench filled his lungs. Henry always stank—of sweat, of horses, of smithy smoke and crushed herbs—but somehow, it always added up to the smell of being alive. Hans couldn’t get enough of it right now following the smell like a bloodhound on a trail, to the source, somewhere in the crook of Hal's neck.
“I’ve got you” Henry rasped, barely more than a breath against his hair repeating it over and over like a prayer. Hans burrowed deeper, pressed his face harder into the sweat-damp skin, letting the scratchy wool of Henry’s tunic scrape his cheek. He clung to the heat of him, pushing back at the world outside because here, in the grimy fold of Henry’s neck, he found some resemblance of safety.
“If I were faster… if I’d reached Ulrich earlier. He would have listened.” Bits and pieces of what Henry was saying started filtering through slowly. His squire’s voice frayed at the edges, too quick and unraveling. “If I’d found him faster, Tomas, healed him… he would’ve spoken for you. I promised. You wouldn’t… I’m so sorry, Hans””
The meaning of it all sloshed uselessly through Hans' head. What was he saying? The words battered at him, but he couldn’t hold onto them, couldn’t make them fit into anything logical but he didn’t like the sour notes he heard in Henry’s voice, normally cheerful and brimming with quiet confidence. Why was he apologising?
Henry rambled on, choked with guilt and Hans finally found the strength to raise his head, neck screaming at the motion, as he met Henry’s gaze. His friend’s face was pale, his expression etched with horror, his eyes wide—shining with too much and nothing good.
“Henry,” he croaked, holding his gaze. “You’ve done all you could.” He swallowed and tried to gather his thoughts. “Heal him faster? What… Do you hear yourself? You’re not a miracle worker, Henry—not even a surgeon. How could you…? You did everything you could. Like you promised.”
“But they almost—”
“Ulrich wouldn’t have listened, no matter what you showed him.” Hans’ voice curdled with bitterness knowing this to be the truth. The whole castle had been buzzing with whispers, excited for the spectacle— the guards were sure to tell him whilst he was rotting in the cell, fanning the flames of panic threatening to consume him—and then they dragged him to the scaffold taking the scenic route, for all to see his shame.
“He was set on making an example out of me, no matter the cost.” Once the show begins, only God’s hand can stall it. And He sent him Von Bergow and Henry.
“Ulrich is a wad of cocks, but he surely—”
“You could have left.” Hans cut him off, and Henry went quiet, expression frozen in disbelief “You could have rode back to Rattay and tell them what happened and no one could have blamed you. No one would.” His own eyes went wide, the words spilled out now that his voice had returned, rough but there. “But you stayed for me. You fought for me.” He took a shuddering breath “I couldn’t ask for more...It’s more than anyone else has ever done.”
He coughed again, the sound ripping through him, his throat raw and aching. He looked away, the weight of his own words too much, like he revealed too much, unable to hold Henry’s gaze any longer.
“I could never leave you behind Hans…” he heard a quiet admission filled with so much sincerity that made his eyes burn again and he bit his lip to hold back the tears. He did not know what he had done to earn such loyalty and he was not sure what to do with it now that it was on offer. All he could offer was a sharp nod where words had failed him.
They were still crouched behind the executioner’s stand, his moment of weakness hidden from the gawkers’ prying eyes. The evening sky smoldered in pinks and oranges, a brilliant display of God’s approval—or maybe just indifference. Hans rubbed at his face, smearing dirt and drying tears, his fingers gritty and rough against his skin. He shook himself, a visible tremor, trying to shed the last tendrils of fear that clung to his shoulders.
“Seems like fortune favored me once again,” he ignored the wet sound of his voice, looking for support in familiar words. He finally looked back at Henry, who had fallen quiet, his expression drawn and tight, but he managed a smile in return, a thin, sad curve of his lips at their shared motto.
“But we are not done yet. Is Von Bergow even still alive?” Hans tried to push himself up, only to collapse back on his ass, his legs refusing to hold him. Henry rose to his feet and extended a hand to pull him up without a word.
“I couldn’t see him in the crowd…” Henry muttered, his grip iron-strong, his hands clamped around Hans’ forearms, bearing more of his weight than he should have to. His eyes stayed locked on Hans, pinning him in place.
“I was looking at you,” Henry said, his voice flat and uncompromising. “I needed to get to you.”
Hans swallowed, his throat closing up, and it had nothing to do with the noose’s bite and everything to do with Henry’s eyes, which seemed to strip him bare. Because that was the thing—Henry was always looking at him. Henry always saw him. Good and bad. The lord and the man beneath the mask.
He should have felt ashamed about his collapse, about the tears, about being hauled off the scaffold like a beaten dog, but with Henry, he didn’t. Henry knew him, really knew him , saw all the ugly parts, and in that there was something close to freedom.
It stirred something dark in him, and he felt heat crawl up his neck, a warmth that had nothing to do with shame, his heart thudding hard against his ribs, heavy and uncomfortable.
“Let’s…” he choked out, “Let’s go and find out.” The words hung between them, barely more than a rasp.
Henry held his gaze, his expression unreadable, but his eyes searched, assessing, checking if his Lord was really sound. Even if Hans felt anything but, and for reasons he couldn’t be sure of.
“Let’s go.” Henry agreed, finally letting him go. The absence of his touch was immediate, a cold bite against Hans’ skin and with a gnawing feeling, he wondered what changed.