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Once they get a breather at Suchdol, the men scatter—some to the alehouse, others to bed, the rest chasing whatever comfort they can find. Henry finds none in wine, nor in prayers. The rare stillness sets his teeth on edge, and he ends up spending the evening by the forge, tending to swords and battered armour.
The more battles he faces, the more he is confronted by a hollowness he doesn’t know how to carry. Here, by the hearth’s flame, he is reminded it is still fury that drives him. He works until his ears ring with a clanging of metal and exhaustion settles into his limbs with a hum.
It is already dusk by the time Henry makes his way back. The last light has faded into the warm glow of the fortress, drunken laughter drifting through the halls like thinning smoke. Henry thinks of checking in on Capon. Or rather—he doesn’t think at all. Before he knows it, he finds himself in front of his master’s door.
It is absurd, the way the world tilts slightly when Hans isn’t near. Henry had never noticed it before, couldn’t allow himself to dwell on the feeling. But now, in this liminal space between battles, it is all he can think about.
“Henry!”
The familiar joyful voice calls from behind. Henry turns and finds Hans leaning against the wall, flushed and grinning, a wine jug clutched to his chest like a prized relic.
“Hans, I was about to check on you,” Henry sees the man sway and raises an eyebrow, “How much you had to drink?”
“Oh, nearly not enough!” Hans shakes his head indignantly, “You see, I and that pitcher of fine wine were just on our way to the baths.” He hiccups and studies Henry with unfocused eyes, “What’s with the grime? Did you come here through a chimney?“
“I was at the forge, sharpening our gear—“
“Then, you should definitely come with us! Christ, you will make common people utter Lord’s Prayer if you cross their path—you’re as black as a devil’s cat.”
“The last time we went to the baths, it was the least relaxing experience I’ve ever had,” Henry rubs his face, feeling for the remaining muck, “And I don’t fancy going flower picking at midnight again.”
Hans laughs merrily at that and pushes himself off the wall, almost toppling in the process. Henry reaches out to catch him but Hans shoves the wine pitcher into his hands instead.
“There! Now as a wine boy you are ordained to accompany me!”
As Hans gives away the pitcher, he loses his balance after all. As Henry grabs him by the arm, Hans clings to him, carefree and warm. Henry heaves a sigh, knowing he has lost the battle before it even started.
“Alright, then. Otherwise you might drown yourself.”
“That’s the spirit!”
As they make their way downstairs, Hans babbles away at how wondrous it is that the bathmaid here is also called Clara and how Henry might actually end up picking up flowers at midnight again after all. Henry nods meekly, for some reason unable to pay attention to anything but the hot crimson breath on the side of his neck.
“I just hope the night doesn’t end in brawl and fistfight,” Henry remarks helplessly.
“Since when you became as boring as a sermon at matins? Soon I will have to watch moss grow on you!“
“Somebody has to remain responsible.”
“Our main responsibility for tonight is to soak in the bath and to savour the wine!” Hans solemnly raises his finger, “Never miss an opportunity to be irresponsible, especially when the circumstances allow it!”
“Well, there’s truth to that,” Henry lets out a chuckle, “Jesus, can you parley after getting pickled like a herring.”
“What can I say, nobleman should know how to get sloshed and keep his wits.”
They carry their banter all the way to the bathhouse. The water is ready and Clara excuses herself to join others for a drink. Capon doesn’t seem to mind—more preoccupied with keeping the wine close by. He shrugs off his clothes and slips into the tub first. Once Henry follows, Hans suddenly cries out, almost making him jump out of his skin.
“Christ, Henry! Were you ambushed by a pack of wolves?” Hans is wide-eyed, his finger pointing to the tapestry of scars on Henry’s chest, “It looks as though you’ve been stitched back together since our dip in the pond.”
“Well, ever since then, our trip wasn’t exactly a stroll through the orchard,” Henry shrugs, running a hand over jagged lines. The space between them curls in clouds of steam so thick, they can barely see each other.
“True. But I don’t recall you getting cut up so much even at the siege of Nebakov.”
“After getting seized by the bastards we got tortured pretty bad. I’m glad I got away with only a couple of scars.”
“God, and I was complaining about getting locked up in a room!”
“Think nothing of it,” Henry shakes his head. “If that body can be your shield, I don’t mind it getting cut a thousand times.”
The words tumble out of his mouth before he can catch them. Around Hans he relaxes very easily, somewhat willingly. He lets down his guard without noticing, until his mouth runs ahead of his sense.
“My word, Henry,” Hans laughs a little too quickly. If Henry didn’t know better, he’d say he’s almost bashful. “Apart from getting into fights, it seems you’ve had many adventures of a different kind!” Hans schools his face into a teasing grin. “You’ve gotten better at feeding the right lines. Do tell, how many hearts have you eaten?”
“I was too occupied with rescuing your noble arse to frolic around,” Henry scoffs, his tone is stern but only halfheartedly so.
Henry doesn’t elaborate on how he nearly lost his mind chasing threads of Capon’s whereabouts. How he thought of hanging himself, was he to find his master slaughtered. How he prayed each dawn for God to let him save Hans even if it was the last thing he did.
“I’m sorry I put you through so much trouble,” Hans says, unusually quiet. “Though, I daresay, if not for your keenness to save damsels in distress, I’d be long since dust on the wind.”
“Do my ears deceive me, or did Sir Hans Capon just claim the title of damsel in distress?”
“Who would’ve thought, eh?”
Hans laughs softly, washing down his flushed smile with a generous gulp of wine. Henry drinks too, trying to suppress the uneasiness prickling inside. He shakes his head but still can’t ward off the thought that Hans has got it all wrong.
It is Henry who would crumble, should anything ever happen to his lord.
If not for duty, what remains of him but strife and vengeance? The loathsome words of Istvan Toth still haunt him like ghouls. The war took everything from us, he had said, and in our hatred, we are the same. That man slithered like a venomous snake, smiled with a dagger hidden behind his back, and stayed loyal only to the devil. Henry despised him and, more than anything, feared to find the same darkness in himself.
He is a blacksmith turned soldier. Growing up, Henry burned himself at the forge so often, there were months he could barely hold a spoon. His mother had to keep a stash of sour cream at hand to soothe his blistering wounds. With time he got used to the burns and no longer cowered before hearth’s fire, ready to handle coals with bare hands. Little did he know that flame of war burned hotter still.
Since Skalitz Henry could only see the smoke. The scorching heat of his own rage seared his lungs with every breath. The fire he grew up taming had turned against him. That is, until Hans Capon burst into his life in floods of red and gold, who knew nothing of the blacksmith’s work but sparks flew when he laughed.
At first, Henry was annoyed by him out of his wits. He would gladly throw Capon in a ditch, given the chance. But much like with everything else, Henry was slow to notice the shift—it crept up on him quietly, and already too deep to undo.
“You are fond of your master to a fault.”
Rosa had told him once, after she caught him staying up until dawn to plot a break into Maleshov.
“You see,” she had smiled wryly at his baffled look, “All throughout my life in a palace, I have seen countless pages. Some were virtuous, some vile—most of them thought their masters a nuisance, even though they could never explicitly show it.”
“My master’s a pain in the neck alright,” Henry had laughed, “I doubt many people go into service expecting to raid fortresses.”
“That is true, and many wouldn’t. Even if they were commanded to. That is why you, Henry, are different.”
Back then Henry had thought nothing of it. He had long stopped noticing the boundaries of his duty to Lord Capon. Henry would lay down his life for him, and go as far as the pits of Hell, if that’s where the path led.
Yet, beyond duty, there were moments—like standing at the foot of Hans’s bed while he burned with fever, or swinging his sword mid-fight to deflect a blow aimed too close to his master’s head. In moments like that, when he thought he might never speak to Hans again, the suffocating hatred that made up his whole existence loosened its grip. He was led by desperation but suddenly there was more to him than the usual blinding fury. He would save Hans, even if it was the last thing he did. Vengeance be damned.
Henry watches as Hans drapes himself over the edge of the tub, apparently too tired and drunk to hold up his head. Hans lets out a content sigh and runs a wet hand through his hair. Water beads catch on the strands and reflect the candlelight as if jewels on the crown. Henry wants nothing more than to catch that light and see if it’s enough to hold him together when all else falls to pieces.
“Oh, it’s getting chilly,” Hans drawls with a yawn.
“What’s wrong with sleeping in a bed?” Henry asks, clearing his throat—his voice too thick with things unspoken. “You might catch a cold. And I doubt you fancy getting locked up in a stuffy room again.”
“Ugh, you bet. Just imagining it makes my skin crawl.”
“How’d you even bear it in Maleshov? Though I reckon it was still a bit better than waiting for gallows in Trosky dungeons.”
“True,” Hans murmurs, dragging his fingers along the edge of the tub. “I knew I was worth more to them alive than dead. However, with men like von Bergow you can never be sure. If he wasn’t greedy for ransom, he’d have fed me to the dogs.”
“What a blessing in the vices of men, eh.”
“But come to think of it,” Hans perks up, his tone a tad brighter, “What kept me from losing my mind was knowing that you are reckless enough to try and get me out.”
Henry blinks, caught off guard. Suddenly a wave of dry heat rises behind his sternum. “Well,” he mutters, “I’ve been called a madman on more than one occasion.”
“You are a madman alright! And I love you for that,” Hans laughs, warm and open. “I didn’t know when or how but I knew you’d come for me.”
Henry is short on breath. How can he say that it had never been a choice. There was no moment of doubt, no weighing of risks. Just the fact of it—Hans was out there, and Henry would go. And now Hans is holding it up to the light, and Henry doesn’t know what to do with the words. He doesn’t have the language to explain what it means to carry someone in your bones. So he just looks at him, and hopes it’s enough.
The silence is comfortable and unabashed, a thousand tiny musings tucked in a sliver of his soul. Henry revels in it a while longer, until the water is too cold to endure.
Hans pouts upon being nudged out of the bath but he is too drowsy to keep up the attitude and Henry reckons he won’t need much coaxing.
“Come on, I’ll help you out.”
Henry guides him back upstairs. Hans clings to him all the same, shushing Henry now and then, even though he is the one running into furniture and making a ruckus. Henry lets him. So long as Hans is safe and in his reach, he might as well smash the world to pieces for all he cares.
“Well, tonight was uneventful,” Hans sighs once they reach his chambers. Then he hiccups so loudly, it makes him dissolve into a fit of giggles that folds him in half.
“I’d rather keep it that way,” Henry shakes his head, smiling despite himself.
“Unless—“
“Come on,” Henry interrupts gently, nudging him through the door, “I’ll see you to bed, lest you run off for the wine cellars.”
“The moss has already grown up to your ears,” Hans groans but obediently trots to his bed nonetheless.
As soon as he lies down, all the laughter catches up to him and the hiccups return to take revenge. Henry waits, hoping they’ll settle, but they only grow worse.
“Oh, for gods sake,” Hans manages to croak between fits.
“Seems like something will keep you entertained after all,” Henry chuckles.
“It’s all fun to you now, but I might hiccup myself to death. Then what will you do?”
Henry steps closer, dragging a chair to the bedside before sitting down. He reaches out and pats Hans on the chest. Hans makes a startled sound in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t flinch or pull away.
“There, there,” Henry murmurs, tapping out a steady rhythm with a firm but gentle hand. “My ma used to do this for me when I got bloated on buttermilk.”
As Hans relaxes under his touch, Henry marvels at the warmth of another living being. The most important things are so mundane, it is easy to lose sight of them. So, in a quiet moment like this Henry vows to never take it for granted.
“You’ve been lucky, Henry,” Hans says, his voice is right under Henry’s palm, a soft rumble. “And I don’t mean it in a pitiful way. Rather, how wonderful that you’ve had enough time with your parents to get the love along with spanking.”
Henry remembers that Hans was orphaned at a very young age. Sure, he grew up pampered by nannies, preachers, and chamberlains, but Henry doubts any of them ever went out of their way to soothe the little lord through hiccups or nightmares. In a way, Hans might have lost more than Henry ever did.
“I used to believe no one dared to leave me,” Hans continues, “But in reality, no one ever chose to stay. You, on top of all that, came back for me.”
They’ve been through so much together, and yet there are still shades to Hans that Henry has never seen. In the timid string of words, he catches the edges of debilitating terror. It reminds him of the night Hans dragged him bleeding through the woods—his anguished expression hurt Henry more than the wounded shoulder. He doesn’t dare to think of himself so highly, but maybe he’s not the only one who wouldn’t survive the loss.
For a long time Henry had been unsettled by the way Istvan treated Erik. He couldn’t wrap his mind around a fondness in that rotten man—what twisted form of care made him hold on to the boy so dearly. But it made Henry think that, maybe, even if darkness never truly goes away, it also never wins. Not in him, not in anyone. So in that, at least, he and Istvan were the same.
The hiccups have long since passed, and Henry starts to pull away. In the quiet beat that follows, Hans reaches out and catches his hand midair.
“Stay with me? That is, in case I start hiccuping again.”
In the request there is no hint of obligation. It only underlines the choice Henry has made a long time ago. The feeling rose steadily over time, built up like waves, until, without quite knowing when, the realisation stitched itself into his being.
After the fall of Skalitz, Henry himself was left in ruins. He was sure he’d never get attached to anyone ever again. And yet, all it took was one hard-headed noble who amidst all his pompous snobbery had actually taken the time to stop and tell Henry he was sorry about everything he’s been through. And just like that, with a gleaming laughter, Henry was called back home.
“How could I ever leave you,” Henry says and doesn’t pose it as a question.
Hans holds on to him a while longer, grasping for the same reassurance they both have been seeking—that they won’t wake up to find themselves all alone in the darkness ever again.