Chapter Text
The late afternoon sun painted the world in hues of gold as Henry and Hans rode side by side down a dusty road. Hans was humming a tune—one of his own dubious creations. It went on for hours.
“Honestly, you could at least pretend to care about staying in key!”
Hans grinned, unfazed. “You just don’t appreciate genius when you hear it! I could perform this at the royal court, and they’d beg for an encore.”
“Beg for you to stop, more like,” Henry quipped. The horses trotted along the road, the rhythm of hooves punctuating their banter.
Hans tilted his head dramatically. “You wound me, Henry! Truly, where’s your sense of romance? This is the open road, the wind in our hair—an ideal setting for an impromptu concert.”
Henry raised an eyebrow. “I thought the ‘ideal setting’ involved an audience that wasn’t just me and two horses.”
“Details, details,” Hans replied, waving his hand dismissively. "Besides, you forget the squirrels. The squirrels too deserve to witness my musical genius. Really, Henry, what do they teach you at the forge?”
Henry chuckled but push the issue any further. Instead, he leaned back in the saddle and nodded toward the sky. “You know, I think we’ve got the best luck. After everything, we’re still here. Alive. Food and drink with us, riding under the sunset.”
Hans’ grin returned in full force. “Ah, Henry, ever the philosopher. But you’re right—life’s better with wine, friends, and good company. When we arrive, I think we should find the nearest tavern. Drink their best wine. Celebrate our survival.”
Henry chuckled. "Again? And I'd think you'd have enough drinking about Suchdol, given that last hangover."
"There's never enough drinking when it comes to victory, my dear Henry," Hans straightened up in his saddle. "But I wasn't thinking about Suchdol right now. That was... three weeks ago? Four? Thing of the past."
"Without a doubt," Henry sighed, glancing at the way Hans carried himself. There was a strange kind of tension and he didn't think he could attribute it - at least not all of it - to their previous night in Devil's Den. Now, they were on the road since morning.
"Will you finally tell me why you just now decided to go to Polná?" Henry squinted. "It's a whole day's ride! Your uncle wanted us to stay around Kuttenberg. Is there a reason or is this another of Great Capon's miraculous ideas? "
"I'm not going to bolt if that's what you're worried about," Hans retorted.
"I didn't-"
"Oh, please," Hans waved his hand. "We didn't talk about it before and please, don't start just now."
For a while, they rode in companionable silence, the countryside opening up before them in rolling fields and clusters of trees. Hans suddenly broke the quiet, his tone light but tinged with something deeper. “Do you know what Polná’s famous for, Henry?”
“No idea,” Henry admitted. “Other than you dragging me there.”
“It’s not really the town though,” Hans replied honestly, his smirk laced with sharpness. “It’s who’s in it. My mother, Lady Hedvika of Dubá—though she’s hardly a lady in any true sense.”
Henry raised an eyebrow, unsure how to respond. Hans gave him a quick, almost theatrical wave of dismissal. “Oh, don’t look at me like that."
"We're going to see your mother?"
"Yes, unfortunately," Hans nodded grimly. "God fucking dammit."
"Well, you sound excited," Henry deadpanned.
Hans shrugged, his gaze drifting off to the side. “As much as anyone can be about visiting a double widow turned religious nutcase.” He let the words hang for a moment before leaning back in his saddle with a dramatic sigh. “Still, I suppose she’ll be thrilled to see me. After all, who doesn’t love being reunited with their wayward son after a decade or two?”
Henry shook his head with a wry smile. “You’re full of it, Capon. And you know it.”
Hans shot him a pointed look, but Henry’s easy, almost amused expression seemed to strip away some of his defensiveness. After a moment, he rolled his eyes dramatically, letting out another sigh as though the burden of it all rested solely on him. “I’ll probably just let her fawn over me, tell me how she regrets it all, and I listen and nod like a dutiful son. Then I’ll remind her how little I need her, and we’ll get back to our lives.”
Henry chuckled softly, but there was little humor in Hans’ words—just an underlying tension that he couldn’t ignore. “You wouldn’t have come all this way if you didn’t care.”
"What are you now, a mind-reader?" Hans glanced at him, his expression unreadable for a moment before he rolled his eyes. “The truth is,” he admitted, suddenly inspecting his hands, “it’s... long overdue. And in Suchdol, well, people promise God all kinds of weird things when they think they’re about to die.”
“You promised God you’d visit your mother if He let you live?” Henry asked, his mouth twitching.
“No...” Hans hesitated, his voice quieter now. “If... if He let you live. That night, you know.”
“Oh...”
“Yeah...” Hans looked away quickly, as if embarrassed by his own confession. Then, with a sudden change of tone, he added, “But anyway, if she starts preaching about relics and manuscripts, you’ll know exactly why I avoid her. And I still would if it weren’t for your sorry arse.”
Henry feigned offence. “My sorry arse? It’s your arse that will be sorry once we get to the inn!”
“Henry!” Hans spluttered, the faintest flush rising to his cheeks.
Henry grinned, satisfied with the reaction. For now. “How about racing to the next bend?”
Hans smirked, his spirits lifting at the challenge. “Prepare yourself, peasant. You’ll be buying tonight!”
As the evening settled over Polná just as Hans and Henry rode through the gates, looking for a place to sleep. The innkeeper, a cheerful older man, ushered them in with promises of hearty stew and cold ale. Dinner was simple but satisfying—fresh bread, steaming bowls of stew, and just enough ale to take the edge off the day's long ride.
The room was modest but warm, the firelight casting a soft glow on the wooden walls. They had paid for two beds, but neither of them gave the empty one a second glance. As they settled into one bed together, Henry found himself smiling at the simple fact that they both fit—comfortably, no less.
“Surprising, isn’t it?” Henry muttered, his voice light with amusement.
Hans turned his head to look at him, his brow raised. “What is?”
“That we fit in one bed. I’d have thought you’d take up twice the space, given your ego,” Henry teased.
Hans laughed quietly, the sound soft and genuine. “You wound me, peasant. Truly. But perhaps it’s a sign that the universe approves of my unparalleled charm—and your taste, of course.”
Henry rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at his lips. “Or maybe it’s just a well-made bed.”
Hans leaned closer, his fingers brushing lightly against Henry’s arm, his tone dropping to something more intimate. “Well, whatever the reason, I suppose I don’t mind sharing.”
Henry shook his head fondly, resting his forehead against Hans’ shoulder for a moment before pulling back. “If you keep drinking like that, you won’t just be sharing a bed—you’ll be snoring in my ear all night.”
Hans smirked, taking a sip from his tankard, which he had stubbornly brought with him from downstairs. “Ah, Henry, so perceptive. But you’re mistaken. This isn’t mere indulgence—it’s preparation. Fortification for tomorrow.”
Henry gave him a knowing look, one eyebrow raised. “Fortification, huh? You’re nervous, Hans. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Hans scoffed lightly, though his gaze lingered on the fire. “Nervous? Me? That’s absurd.”
But his fingers fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, betraying the calm he was trying to project. Henry sighed softly, nudging Hans until their eyes met. “You’ll be fine. Whatever happens tomorrow, you’ll handle it.”
Hans held his gaze for a moment, and some of the bravado in his expression softened. “You’re annoyingly good at this whole ‘supportive’ thing, you know.”
“Someone has to keep you grounded,” Henry said with a smile, his voice warm.
Hans tilted his head slightly, his playful smirk returning as he leaned closer. “And to think, I was starting to believe your forge-hardened heart couldn’t hold a drop of Capon.”
Henry laughed softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Hans’ forehead. “You’re lucky I like you. Otherwise, you’d be in the other bed, drinking alone.”
Hans grinned, pulling Henry into his arms and settling them both against the pillows. “At least in that case it would be me buying the ale and unlike some people, I'd get us a proper amount."
For a moment, there was a sleepy silence, the kind that comes from two people comfortable in each other's presence. Then Henry’s voice broke it, soft but curious. “When was the last time you saw her—your mother?”
Hans turned on his side to face him. “Well, aren’t you one to ruin a good moment?” He paused, thinking. “I don’t know—ten, eleven maybe? Hanush brings her up all the time, though. Usually when he’s scolding me.” Hans sat up slightly and imitated Hanush’s exasperated tone, raising a finger. “Once more I catch you brawling with the guardsmen, I’ll send you straight to your mother to play dress-up!”
Henry chuckled, the sound tinged with sympathy. “That bad?”
“You have no idea,” Hans replied with a grin that carried a hint of defiance. “Honestly, I never really thought about her that much. Father died when I was a babe, and she left for Prague not long after—to live a life of a happy widow.” He sighed, the humor fading for a moment before returning with sharpness. “And then she re-married. Can you imagine—Lady Hedvika of Dubá, widow of the Lord of Leipa, lowering herself to marry that country squire, Sir Nobody!”
Henry tilted his head, feigning a thoughtful look. “She could’ve married a blacksmith. Now that would’ve been the real tragedy.”
“Oh, shut up, Henry,” Hans groaned, but there was laughter in his voice, tempered by the lingering bitterness he wasn’t quite ready to admit. "Anyway," he continued, "they were married for some... two years, maybe, then he died. And she moved here and started collecting old manuscripts, prayer books, relics, priests, all the stuff. I remember seeing her, all in black, covered face, handling some old dusty bones of some saint. Now that's a sight that turns you to booze and wenches, believe you me."
Henry smirked, leaning closer. “So that’s your excuse, is it?”
Hans turned his head sharply to face him, mock outrage lighting up his features. “Excuse? No! Henry, it’s an inspiration—a fine example of what I should not aspire to. There’s a difference, you know.”
Henry shook his head, smiling fondly at him. “You’re ridiculous.”
Hans smirked, his grin softening as his gaze held Henry’s for a moment longer than usual. “Ridiculous enough to make you share a bed with me, apparently.”
He shifted closer, his hand reaching out to lightly brush Henry’s, and hesitated for a moment before entwining their fingers.
“You know,” Hans began softly, his usual tone replaced by something quieter, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this... comfortable. It’s strange.”
Henry glanced at him, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Strange? I’d say it’s about time you stopped fidgeting.”
Hans let out a quiet laugh, his thumb absentmindedly running over Henry’s knuckles. “You’re infuriating, you know that? Always managing to get under my skin.”
Henry’s smile grew as he turned to face him fully, their shoulders brushing. “That’s funny. I think you like it. Under your skin. Or other places.”
Hans tilted his head, pretending to consider. “Maybe.”
Henry chuckled, pulling Hans’ hand closer, resting it against his chest where his heart beat steady and sure. “Lucky for you, I’ve got nowhere better to be.”
Hans smiled faintly, closing his eyes as the firelight flickered and the world outside faded away.