Work Text:
For Ame, who waited patiently for me to write again. <3
Světluška
or
Ode to the Bailiff of Uzhitz
Stopping in Uzhitz had been a terrible idea.
The village was a miserable spit of houses along a miserable muddy path, there wasn’t a single decent bathhouse where one could enjoy half an hour with the charming local girls, and even the tavern was pathetic. Not to mention the accommodations they had been given… What sane person could possibly think that a man of Sir Hans Capon of Pirkstein’s stature could sleep on a filthy straw bed with a pillow that stank of bedbugs and God knows what else?
They should have refused and moved on, but that old grumbler Oats had done nothing but repeat that the horses needed rest, that the men were tired, and that since Uzhitz was under the jurisdiction of Talmberg, at least they wouldn’t have to worry about alliances or the risk of being slaughtered in their sleep.
Exasperated, he had looked to Henry for support, but his squire had merely shrugged and left him to deal with that hot potato.
“Well then, Uzhitz it is! At least we can cheer ourselves up with a nice pint of cold beer!” he had exclaimed, making the best of a bad situation, and the men in the escort had agreed with a chorus of satisfied shouts.
He had given his men the evening off and now, cursing under his breath, he was struggling like an eel in an attempt to rid himself of his armor.
“Sir Hans, allow me to help you,” Henry intervened, stepping closer and firmly grasping his right arm, which was flailing as he tried to wriggle out of his breastplate.
With a delicate yet firm motion, Henry unfastened the straps securing the armor to Hans’s back, then, with the same care and confidence, slipped it off and set it neatly on the bench at the foot of the bed. Hans paid it no mind, too busy tearing off his chainmail as if it were red-hot.
“The Lord be praised! I couldn’t stand that thing a moment longer! Another minute with the chainmail on and I’d have collapsed! Can you think of anything more uncomfortable? More outrageously heavy? Wearing it is the worst experience of my life, like being a hunted dog or a bird in a cage or—” but Henry abruptly cut off his monologue.
“You changed your doublet.”
Hans fell silent at once, looking at him in confusion.
“It’s green,” Henry added, as if that information might somehow be of use.
“Well, surely you don’t expect me to wear the same clothes all the time like a beggar, do you?” Hans replied, feigning offense as he threw a vaguely nervous glance at his bottle-green silk doublet. But evidently, his squire wasn’t really expecting an answer, because he didn’t reply to the rhetorical question. He simply let his gaze drift up and down the lean figure of the young nobleman.
“The green brings out your hair color better, like fireflies in a nighttime meadow.”
He said it just like that, with no particular inflection in his voice and no flicker in his gaze. He simply said it, with those stupid blue eyes fixed on Hans’s face, and Hans felt himself flush.
He did it often—came out with remarks like that, out of context, unsolicited, and spoken with utter seriousness. And Hans had to summon all his willpower not to burst out laughing in his face or, as in this case, just plainly burst.
Was he aware of what he had said? Did he realize how those words might sound, spoken here, safe in their room, addressed to him of all people? Surely not, and perhaps that was what made Henry’s remarks even more disarming.
His innocence had something deeply sweet about it, a kind of purity that was almost childlike, and it always managed to throw him off balance.
“Well, listen to our Henry—did you happen to hang out with some French troubadours while I wasn’t looking?” Hans exclaimed with a smirk, taking half a step back to put a little distance between them. He saw Henry furrow his brows slightly, puzzled.
“No, why?”
“So the poetic flair is all yours! If you ever fail as my squire, you’ve got a future as a minstrel, my friend!” Hans joked, giving him a brief but hearty slap on the shoulder.
Henry seemed to take a couple of seconds to process the joke, then he let out a low, quiet chuckle and shook his head slightly.
“You’re exaggerating! I was just noticing that you look different in green, that’s all!” he admitted, twisting around himself as he struggled out of his own armor, bearing the colors of Rattay.
As soon as they were both vaguely presentable, they shut the door behind them and headed downstairs to the inn’s courtyard.
It was a quiet evening, and the already warm breeze heralded the imminent end of spring. The sun, which had nearly completed its descent on the horizon, bathed everything in a languid orange light.
They all dined together, sitting at the same table and sharing the inn’s fresh beer, and for a moment, as Henry laughed at some comment from the others, Hans realized he was happy.
He was far enough from Rattay to feel free from the weight of Uncle Hanush’s expectations; he could travel, visit new places, meet people, have experiences, and complete that damn mission that would prove to everyone how much he deserved the respect of the other nobles. For the first time in his life, finally, things were starting to go his way.
He was on his fourth tankard when the other men in the escort, their eyelids already drooping, asked for leave, using the excuse that they had to wake up at dawn to stay on schedule. Unlike Hans, who had his own squire to take care of everything, they had to account for at least an hour in advance to get dressed and saddle their horses.
“As you wish, my lovely grannies! Go ahead and have a good, restful sleep!” he teased them good-naturedly, blowing an exaggerated kiss in their direction.
In response, they chuckled and shook their heads before leaving the table and making their way to their rooms.
“Do you want to go too?” he asked after a moment of silence, gaze lost into the bottom of his tankard.
Henry didn’t answer immediately. He glanced around, then shrugged.
“As you prefer. I’m not tired,” he admitted.
The sky had grown dark, and the tables in the courtyard were now illuminated by a couple of flickering torches that cast a pleasant warmth.
“I could challenge you to a game of dice!” Hans suggested, his grin slightly lopsided from the alcohol.
“Are you sure? Last time, I completely wiped the floor with you,” Henry reminded him, wearing a smug expression that somehow made Hans feel hot.
“That was just luck. But luck favors the bold—which means me! So, do you accept the challenge?”
“You’re drunk, Sir Hans. It would be an easy victory, and I wouldn’t dare take advantage of you,” his ever-loyal squire replied.
Hans shook his head, his blond hair falling messily over his forehead.
“I’m not drunk, I’m just merry, and I don’t…” He was about to say something wildly inappropriate about being taken advantage of, but a voice from the table behind them froze the words on his tongue.
It was just a snippet of conversation, a handful of words, but it was enough to snuff out his good spirits like a splash of water on a candle’s flame.
“We should be grateful to be back under Talmberg. Can you imagine what will happen when those poor fools in Rattay are left without Hanush to rule them?”
Hans went rigid at those words, so much so that he didn’t even notice whether Henry had heard them or if he had sensed his discomfort.
A wise person would have ignored it and gone back to focusing on their dice game—but wisdom had never been Hans’s strong suit.
“No kidding,” a female voice added.
“My cousin in Pirkstein told me that young Sir Hans is quite the character!” she remarked. And at that moment, Hans knew Henry had heard them too, because he felt a shift in the air between them—because, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the muscles in Henry’s arms tense under his linen shirt. He must have clenched his fists under the table.
It was the male voice, the one he had first heard, that picked up the conversation again.
“Quite the character indeed! From what I’ve heard, he’s nothing but a good-for-nothing. Between the tavern and the girls he surrounds himself with, it’s no surprise he has no time left to learn how to govern. Twenty years old and still needing his uncle to hold his hand—I’d be ashamed!”
It all happened in an instant. Henry leaned forward to stop him, but it was too late: Hans had already gotten to his feet, the beer in his system now a distant memory, and he had turned to face the offending table.
“Take back what you said, immediately!” he demanded of the man dressed in red who had dared to speak about him.
The man turned to look at him and gave him a disdainful glance.
“And why should I? Everyone knows Hans Capon is nothing but a disgrace to his family.”
Hans took a step forward, his right fist clenched at his side, a wave of heat surging up toward his gut.
“Take. It. Back.”
The man stood as well, facing him, and Hans felt Henry step up behind him in a single stride.
“Sir Hans, this isn’t—” Henry tried to warn him, but the man simply raised an eyebrow.
“Sir Hans?” he repeated, mockery lurking in his voice.
“As it happens, you are speaking to Sir Hans Capon of Pirkstein, Lord of Rattay. You’d better watch your words,” Henry defended him, and for a ridiculous moment, that necessary intervention made Hans’s blood boil even more.
“So, the famous Sir Hans is you?” the man scoffed, letting his gaze run up and down Hans’s figure.
Of course, he wasn’t wearing Rattay’s colors or insignia, he was tired and sweaty from the long ride, and aside from the fine quality of his doublet, nothing about him would have immediately marked him as a noble.
“I could have you flogged for the insult you just gave me,” Hans hissed, his eyes narrowing. But once again, the stranger didn’t seem impressed.
“Oh really? Let me remind you of something: you’re not in Rattay, and you’re not my lord. My loyalty lies with Lord Divish, not with some spoiled brat.”
That was too much. All at once, the fire building in Hans’s gut erupted, clouding his vision and driving him to act on impulse. He pulled his fist back with all the strength he had—but he never got the chance to throw the punch.
Two strong hands grabbed him from behind and, with a firm yank, dragged him back toward his table.
“Sir Hans, trust me—let it go,” Henry’s steady, measured words brushed against his neck along with his warm breath, and for a moment, Hans didn’t know what was happening anymore.
He stood frozen in his squire’s grip, while the man before him chuckled triumphantly and motioned for his companions to follow him elsewhere.
“Tell me I’m wrong— even your own squire has to teach you how to behave,” the man sneered at him before leaving with one last smug expression.
The fire that had consumed his insides twisted into something wounded, a defeated creature curling in on itself. And Hans, realizing he was visibly trembling, shook Henry off.
“Thanks for your concern, but I didn’t need your protection. I could have handled it just fine on my own!” he snapped.
Henry’s eyes widened.
“That was the bailiff of Uzhitz. He’s a nasty man—it wasn’t worth getting into a fight with him and—”
“Did I ask you to help me?! I don’t think so! I would have put him in his place if you hadn’t interfered! But what do you know even about defending honor?!” he shouted, not caring if his words might wound him.
Henry’s face darkened, his blue eyes shadowed by resentment.
“Fine! After all, you always have to be right. Do as you wish, I’m going to bed.”
“Well, good night!” Hans dismissed him with a graceless wave of his hand and stormed off toward the road that cut through the town, with the sole, pathetic intent of putting as much distance as possible between himself and anyone who had witnessed the scene.
He walked for a good five minutes, the fire in his stomach still unextinguished. His palms itched, and digging his nails into them as he clenched his fists did nothing to ease the feeling. If only that idiot Henry hadn’t interfered! He would have shown that man how one speaks to a noble!
Sweaty, tired, and still boiling with anger, he let himself fall onto a bench outside a barn, running a nervous hand through his hair.
He was sick of being talked about like that, sick of never being taken seriously in any circumstance. How could he prove his worth if everyone was so damn prejudiced against him? The thrill of excitement he had felt at sunset and the satisfaction of finally being entrusted with a real mission seemed to have vanished into nothing, replaced by a lump in his throat that made swallowing almost painful.
Was it his fault that they had kept him locked up in Pirkstein his whole life? Damn it, even Henry had had more chances than him to prove what kind of man he was! And him? He did nothing but lag behind, shut up in his chambers, getting scolded by Uncle Hanush for every single step he took in the streets of Rattay, as if merely breathing a little too loudly made him the most unreliable of nobles. As if, among adulterers and drunkards who hid their reputations behind their family crests, he was the only one indulging in a few extra pints or the company of lowborn girls.
They kept telling him how childish and unfit he was, yet no one had ever bothered to show him another way. Since he was a child, they had tormented him with orders to behave like an adult, and now that he was an adult, in their eyes, Hans would always be a spoiled child, no matter what he did to prove otherwise.
Hans sighed. The lump in his throat refused to dissolve.
Though summer was approaching, away from the torches of the inn, the night air was still cool against his overheated skin, and the dark sky poured over him like a cascade of failures. The only sources of light were the lamps at the windows of the house next door and the almost full moon, mocking him just like everyone else.
“Sir Hans! You’re here!”
Henry’s voice reached him as if from far away, mingling with the chirping of the crickets, and Hans didn’t turn around.
“Bravo, congratulations, you found me.” He muttered, still vaguely annoyed.
“What do you want?” he pressed, irritated at being interrupted in his private moment of spiritual reflection.
Henry’s response was not at all what he expected.
“You have the keys to our room.”
Hans turned sharply and shot him a cold, accusatory, almost wounded look. That’s why he had come all this way? Without taking his eyes off Henry’s face—his features barely illuminated by the warm light from the windows—Hans reached into the pouch hanging from his belt and pulled out the large, heavy key to their room at the inn.
Henry took it without much ceremony, and Hans turned his attention back to the path, not even offering him a parting word. Let him go to bed, if that was what he wanted!
But the silence brought neither a farewell from his squire nor the sound of his footsteps on the dirt path: Henry hadn’t left. He had sat down beside him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw him turning the key over in his hands, and Hans began to feel the silence growing heavier around them.
“The bailiff of Uzhitz…” Henry began out of nowhere, his voice low and slightly hoarse.
“The bailiff of Uzhitz can go fuck himself.” Hans cut him off immediately.
He didn’t want to turn, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but when he heard from his left that telltale huff of Henry’s quiet laughter, he couldn’t help but look at him.
“Yeah, well, that could be one solution!” Henry commented, and a smile slipped from Hans’ lips before he could stop it.
“What I meant, Sir Hans, is that you shouldn’t put too much stock in his words. I’ve dealt with him before; he’s truly an unpleasant man and…” He didn’t finish, but Hans understood perfectly what he meant.
“I know, I should have been the bigger man and not reacted impulsively.” That was the conclusion he came to. The boiling rage had gradually retreated, the fire extinguished by the soothing effect that Henry’s words, whether he liked it or not, always had on his restless soul.
“It’s just exhausting, always having to defend myself, always having to fight to… to…” He didn’t finish the sentence. What could he even say? Would it make sense to complain to Henry about the weight of expectations that his noble blood had dumped on him since he was a child?
“I just wish this whole story would end once and for all. If I actually had my own fief, if Uncle Hanush would just once give me the chance to prove that—”
But this time, Henry interrupted him.
“I don’t think you have to prove anything. What your uncle wants is simply less…”
“Childishness? I know, I could recite his scoldings by heart, I’ve heard them for twelve years straight.”
Henry frowned.
“You’ve been under his guardianship for that long?”
Hans shrugged. Sometimes he almost forgot there had been a time when his uncle wasn’t a constant presence in Rattay, when even he was allowed to simply be a child and not the young lord unfit for his duty.
“I told you, when my father died, I was still far from coming of age,” he explained. But it didn’t seem to satisfy Henry, who furrowed his brow even more.
“So the fief of Rattay has been under regency since you were a child? I thought…” He trailed off, and Hans wondered what kind of thoughts lay behind that hesitation.
He didn’t respond, and the chirping of the crickets reclaimed the night and all the unanswered questions filling their hearts.
It was Henry who broke the silence again with a question left hanging.
“Sir Hans, have you ever…?”
Hans waited for him to finish the thought, but his curiosity was not satisfied. Henry must have had a specific idea in mind, because his previously doubtful and concentrated expression was suddenly replaced by a flicker of mischief, by a lopsided grin that immediately put Hans on alert.
“Come with me, I have an idea!” And without waiting a second longer, he jumped to his feet, grabbed Hans firmly by the wrist, and dragged him toward the path.
“Henry, what the hell…?!” But the boy merely gestured for him to follow, and Hans didn’t resist.
He let his squire guide him through the alleys of Uzhitz, while the moon barely illuminated them, and their silent steps carved a path through the stillness of the night. Henry’s fingertips gently grasped Hans’s wrist, and the young lord fervently hoped he wouldn’t notice the sudden acceleration of his heartbeat. He could have blamed it on the surprise, on the unease of being caught wandering suspiciously through the town, on the lingering frustration from his altercation with the bailiff… He could have come up with a hundred different excuses, and Henry would probably have believed them all, but Hans still prayed that he wouldn’t notice how violently his blood pulsed through his veins at the thought that they were practically hand in hand.
They only stopped when they reached a low house adjacent to a stable, its walls whitewashed under the moon’s pale glow. Judging by the dark windows, the inhabitants must have already been fast asleep.
Henry released his wrist and brought a finger to his lips, signaling for silence.
"Wait here, I’ll be right back," he ordered before disappearing quietly into the stable.
Hans, too bewildered to protest, remained standing in the middle of the courtyard like an ermine emerging from its den into the snow.
A handful of minutes passed—though they felt like an eternity—before Henry reappeared, pushing a wheelbarrow meant for carrying hay.
Only, it wasn’t full of hay.
"And so?" Hans asked, increasingly perplexed by his companion’s behavior.
Henry arched an eyebrow.
"And so?" he echoed with a question of his own.
Hans looked around as if the explanation were about to materialize out of thin air, but nothing happened, and he pressed Henry with an expectant expression. The other chuckled quietly, shaking his head.
"Come now, Sir Hans, don’t tell me you’ve never covered your enemies’ house in manure!" he said with nonchalance, a lopsided grin revealing his teeth.
Hans’s eyes widened in shock.
"No?! That’s—disgusting?!" he hissed in a whisper.
Henry chuckled again and, unfazed, reached into the wheelbarrow, compacting a small ball of dung as if it were snow gathered from a fallow field.
"EXCUSE ME—THOSE ARE THE HANDS YOU JUST TOUCHED ME WITH?!" This time, Hans couldn’t contain his voice, letting out a shrill, incredulous yelp as Henry frantically gestured for him to be quiet.
"It’s common practice to wash them afterward," Henry replied smoothly, locking eyes with him with an expression Hans had never seen before—one that sent his heart straight to his throat.
"So? Don’t you think the bailiff deserves a little reminder of this lovely evening?" Henry prompted, still grinning.
Hans shook his head and closed his eyes, half-amused, half-exasperated.
"You wouldn’t dare—"
Splotch.
Under the benevolent moonlight, the first, smeared stain appeared on the pristine white façade of the bailiff’s house.
"You didn’t actually just do that," Hans said, appalled.
"You think?" Henry challenged, amusement flickering in his gaze.
Hans stared at him intensely, then glanced at the wheelbarrow, then back into Henry’s eyes.
"Fine!" he suddenly exclaimed, rolling up the sleeves of his doublet as much as possible. With a visible shudder of disgust, he plunged his hands into the wheelbarrow—there had yet to come a day when he’d back down from a challenge, no matter the stakes.
"Jesus, this is vile…" he muttered as the warmth of the dung seeped into his skin.
Squeezing his eyes shut, trying not to think about it, he followed Henry’s example and compacted his own personal ball of revenge.
He inhaled deeply through his nose, took aim, and threw.
Splotch!
Another stain joined the first.
The sound was immediately swallowed by the silence of Uzhitz’s night, and Hans turned to find Henry’s gaze. His squire was still standing beside him, his eyes gleaming with laughter—and something else, a sort of companionable pride that made Hans’s lips curl into a grin.
He had done it. He had actually done it—he had taken a ball of manure and hurled it at the bailiff’s house, and the filth had splattered all over that bastard’s pristine façade, and it was so… so… liberating!
"Another round?" Henry prompted.
"You can bet on it!" Hans grinned back.
They kept at it for a good ten minutes, like two children in a December morning snowball fight. With each throw, they commented on the results, whispering chuckles and challenging each other to improve their aim. By the time they were finished, the bailiff’s façade had been completely repainted.
"A masterpiece," Henry observed after confirming that the wheelbarrow was empty.
Hans glanced at his hands with barely concealed disgust, shaking them away from his body in a futile attempt to rid himself of the filth, then turned to inspect their handiwork, his shoulders rising and falling with exertion.
"Truly remarkable. Worthy of Prague’s finest artists. It should become a pilgrimage site," he quipped.
"To our right, the fresco of the Annunciation to the Virgin Mary. To our left, the sculpture dedicated to Christ on the Cross. And down at the end of the road, there in the courtyard, ‘Ode to the Bailiff of Uzhitz’—a revolutionary piece in both theme and execution," Henry chimed in, his expression so comically serious that it was impossible not to laugh.
Hans tried to hold it in, but the laughter slipped through his lips, clear and unrestrained. Henry joined him, though he still motioned for him to keep his voice down. Quietly, he returned the wheelbarrow to its place and then, with a tilt of his head, signaled his lord to leave the scene of the crime.
Once again, Henry led him through the darkened streets of the village. At first, their steps were cautious, but soon they turned into a brisk pace, until they were barreling down the hill at full speed—toward the riverbank.
"Thank God, I couldn't stand having my hands covered in shit any longer!" was Hans’ refined comment as they stood barefoot, calf-deep in the water, scrubbing the filth from their hands.
Henry remained silent and cast him a long, amused, almost affectionate glance. Hans suddenly felt an energy completely different from anything he had ever experienced before, a tingling in his fingers and along his neck that made it impossible to hold back any longer.
He burst out laughing again, but this time it was a deep, heartfelt laugh, loud and uninhibited, so intense that tears welled up in his eyes. He clutched his stomach as his abdominal muscles started to ache from the effort.
"No one had ever taken me to have a dung-ball fight before!" he exclaimed, still breathless from laughter.
"That's because you've never kept the right company!" Henry replied, equally out of breath.
"Oh, shut up!" Hans shot back, splashing a bit of water at him.
In response, the squire grinned wickedly and struck the surface of the water hard with the side of his hand, sending up a spray so large that Hans ended up completely drenched.
"My doublet!" he complained, feeling the dampness seep through the fabric and reach his skin. The damage was done—now he deserved his revenge.
Without a moment's hesitation and without any warning, he lunged at Henry and gave him a shove, knocking him off balance and sending him tumbling backward. But the young man was quick on his feet and grabbed Hans' arm, pulling him down with him in his fall.
Sitting in the river, their hair soaked and their clothes dripping, they burst into laughter once more, the tension of the evening now a distant memory.
Still grinning, they dragged themselves out of the water and settled on the grass, spreading out their shirts and doublets to let them drip dry before heading back to the inn to dry them properly by the fire.
They fell silent, sitting side by side, and Hans would have expected that silence to be empty. Instead, under the pale moonlight, the night in Uzhitz was alive with sound.
There was the gentle lapping of the river against the banks, the reeds bending in the light night breeze, the crickets chirping in the grass. And if he concentrated just a little, he could hear Henry’s steady breathing beside him. He could hear his own blood pounding in his ears. There was a sense of peace in that moment, unlike anything he had ever felt before, a tranquility that made his shoulders feel light and his heart unburdened. There was no Uncle Hanush, no Rattay inheritance, no expectations, none of it. There were only the two of them—just two boys, after a reckless prank, enjoying a summer night.
"When the bailiff finds out, he’ll be furious." He found himself saying suddenly, a faint thread of worry in his voice.
Henry turned his gaze from the sky to him.
"By the time the bailiff finds out, we’ll be long gone. And besides, I doubt you're the only person who has unfinished business with him. He could never accuse you directly." He reassured him.
Hans opened his mouth to reply, but unexpectedly, Henry spoke again, and he didn’t have the heart to interrupt him.
"You know, my last day in Skalitz… I had a group of friends there, and there was this guy who needed to be put in his place. So, we pulled off something very similar to our little masterpiece." He smiled, clearly lost in the memory, but then his expression turned serious again.
"Even though he had no proof, my father immediately knew I was involved, and I couldn’t escape his reprimand."
Hans’ lips pressed into a thin line. He understood exactly what Henry was getting at, and to his surprise, he didn’t mind. Henry was telling him something that, deep down, he already knew. Yet, he was doing it with such gentleness, handing him his memories with a delicacy that always amazed him—especially in a man capable of turning into a relentless warrior.
He wanted to answer him, to thank him for these moments where he had allowed him to simply be Hans—just Hans—without the fanfare of titles and responsibilities that came with his name. He wanted to tell him that he knew he would have to straighten up eventually, but that the thought terrified him, that the road before him seemed so dark and winding that putting off the journey felt like the only way to keep from feeling already dead, like a caged bird with its wings clipped.
He wanted to, truly. But the words got stuck in his throat, and when he parted his lips, no sound came out.
So lost in thought, he didn’t even notice that Henry was watching him intently, nor that he had moved just a little closer.
"Sir Hans, stay still." Henry whispered, now only inches from his face.
Hans obeyed, unable to react, and felt his heart hammer against his ribs when Henry gently brought a hand to his face, brushing his thumb along his cheek.
"What…?" he stammered, his wide eyes locked onto Henry’s.
Had they always been so blue? Had his lashes always been so ridiculously long?
" Světluška …" Henry murmured, his breath warm against Hans’ skin, while Hans, lips slightly parted, held his breath.
Then, just as he had leaned in, Henry pulled back, letting his hand slip away from Hans’ face and revealing the tiny creature perched on his thumb—a small firefly.
"Forgive me, it was…" he started, carefully shifting the tiny insect onto a thick blade of grass.
"My mother always said fireflies bring good luck." He added with another of his wistful smiles.
"We had so many of them in the meadow around our linden tree."
Unseen, Hans lifted a slightly trembling hand to his cheek, where, just moments ago, the little insect had unknowingly walked.
"Audentes fortuna iuvat…" he murmured, his eyes still slightly wide, his mouth suddenly dry at the thought of what had just happened—at the thought of what Henry had said that afternoon at the inn.
If he were truly bold, he would lean forward, cup the back of Henry’s neck, and pull him in for a deep, decisive, perhaps even slightly desperate kiss. If he were truly bold, he would throw his arms around him, let his fingers run through his still-damp brown hair, let their bodies warm each other. He would let the moon and the fireflies bear witness to the constant fire Henry ignited within him, to the unrelenting desire that he couldn’t name, that he kept locked inside, letting it swell—more and more, again and again.
If he were truly bold, he would do all of that and more.
Instead, he let himself fall back onto the grass, resting his left hand under his head, his right hand abandoned to his side, and let out a deep sigh.
"I’ll have a linden tree planted in Rattay." He said instead, without even knowing exactly what he meant by it.
Henry, however, lay down beside him, unaware of the storm raging in his heart, unaware of his fear of ruining everything—of leaning in, kissing him, and making the biggest mistake of his life. Of losing the only good thing he had found.
"That will be nice. In summer, there will be fireflies, and we can make wishes on all the ones we manage to count." Henry replied, turning his head toward him, giving him one of those unreadable looks—one where the blue of his eyes seemed deeper, more intense, infinitely softer.
Hans smiled.
Henry’s hand, abandoned on the ground like his own, began absentmindedly playing with the blades of grass until it found stillness, barely brushing against his fingers.
Hans didn’t pull away.
He remained there, beside him, gazing at the moon, surrounded by fireflies that, perhaps—Hans found himself hoping with a hint of embarrassment—reminded Henry of his lord.
"Yes, it will be nice." He declared, turning his head slightly to look at his squire.
For now, this was enough. It was enough to imagine a future together, distant and uncertain, with no rush to reach it.
One day, maybe—who knew?—they would truly make it.
For now, they were here, in the warm summer of Uzhitz, watching the moon, surrounded by fireflies in a nighttime meadow.