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Henry slowly walked through the remains of Maleshov, smoke still heavy in the air even hours after they took a torch to the village. Around him, he heard people sobbing, others praying, and one lone teen girl standing in shock next to two people who could very well be her parents. It brought back Henry’s own memories of Skalitz.
For every villager he tried to save, it seemed five more died in their place. He felt sick to his stomach.
Henry hurried out of the village, vision blurring around the edges from exhaustion and unshed tears, and whistled for Pebbles. He had to meet the others, they would be wondering why he lagged behind.
There was nothing more he could do for Maleshov; he'd done plenty already.
The whole ride, he found himself trapped inside his head. He remembered his mother's smile, his father's wisdom, and he remembered them both being struck down as their village burned around them. Nausea rolled through Henry and he vomited over the edge of his horse, his sudden gagging causing Pebbles to slow to a stop. Barely clinging to her reigns, Mutt whining in worry somewhere to his left, what remained of Henry's dinner from last night made a second, unwanted appearance. Even after his stomach had emptied, he still heaved a few more times, the muscles in his stomach bunching up in pain, but eventually he was able to keep going.
By the time he made it to Suchol, he could barely breathe, his entire body shaking so hard he felt like he might vibrate out of his skin. His brain kept replaying his parents' final moments over and over, and he found himself wondering if that poor girl also watched her parents die.
He hopped off his horse, ignoring a familiar voice calling out to him, and stalked towards the fortress. Guilt gripped at his chest tightly, curling around his heart like a possessive snake. He should have fought The Dry Devil, should have forced him to see what they were doing was wrong, but how could he protect Hans and Samuel if he were injured in the duel? How much time would have been wasted in what was essentially an unwinable argument? The Dry Devil had made up his mind and Henry knew he wasn't going to change it unless he killed him... or died trying, but still he should have tried.
Every decision he'd made so far felt like the wrong one, and he couldn't help but feel like he was digging himself further and further into a deep, dark pit he may not be able to pull himself out of.
He found himself in a small room, most likely some sort of study. He paced the small space, flexing his hands at his sides, flinching whenever his brain made him remember his parents. He didn't do enough then and he certainly didn't do enough last night. Anger pierced his chest and Henry picked up a little stool and threw it across the room. It smashed into the wall, one of the legs hitting the floor seconds before the rest followed.
Henry dropped to the floor, burying his head in his hands. He tried to draw a breath, squeezing his eyes shut tightly, but he was still struggling. He was vaguely aware of a door opening, but he didn't look up, too lost in his own spiral of despair to acknowledge whoever couldn't wait for him to pull himself together.
“Henry…” a soft, familiar voice said and a hand settled on his shoulder. “Henry, are you alright?”
Henry didn't respond, hunching further into himself, still dragging in shallow breaths. He knew, had he had his eyes open, his vision would have been greying at the edges. A part of him hoped he passed out, maybe some sleep would do him some good. Of course, with his luck, he'd be tormented by Istvan Toth again. Even in death the man wouldn't stop haunting Henry.
He felt someone settle down next to him on the floor, felt the hand on his shoulder squeeze him gently. Henry allowed the contact to ground him, and finally drew in a shaky breath, letting it out in a stutter. He rocked himself a little, like his mother used to do when he had had a nightmare as a child. His eyes began stinging and he burrowed further into his little cocoon. Maybe if he stayed in the darkness a little while longer he'll wake up and realize everything that happened last night had just been a bad dream.
“I can't begin to imagine what you're going through…” the hand left his shoulder, and Henry must have made a noise of protest because it returned a moment later, this time resting on the back of his neck.
“I know this is the way of war, but your feelings should have been taken into consideration.” Henry heard shuffling and then warmth flooded the left side of his body as someone pressed into him and fingers starting stroking his hair. He hadn't realized how cold he had been until that very moment and he soaked in as much of the heat as he could, knowing he didn't deserve it but too greedy to care. “Henry, talk to me. Please.”
“I couldn't save them all,” Henry said, his voice shaky and muffled, his eyes burning so bad he felt like they might melt out of his head.
“Who? The people of Maleshov? I heard you try, Henry. While we were fighting, you were encouraging the villagers to flee…”
“And yet some still died.” Henry turned his head towards the voice, resting his cheek against his drawn legs, and opened his eyes. His vision blurred for a moment but when he blinked Hans came into focus, still dirty from the battle, looking worried.
“I failed the people of Maleshov just like I failed the people of Skalitz.” Henry's breath hitched and he felt a tear trail down his face. “They're dead because of us. We're no better than the Cumans who burned my village.” Two more tears rolled down his cheeks and he turned away from Hans’ pitying look, wiping angrily at his eyes.
“Henry…”
“Can we just sit here quietly,” Henry said sharply, cutting off Hans. “Please. Can we just sit here?”
After a pause, Hans said, “Okay.” He looked around for a moment before asking, “Do you wish to be alone?”
Henry nearly told Hans he could go, that he would handle this on his own, but the words caught in his throat. He didn't want to be alone. He wanted…
He just wanted.
Henry leaned over, laying his head in Hans’ lap. He felt Hans freeze and for a moment Henry feared he'd shove him away, but he didn't. Instead, he began stroking Henry's head again, humming softly under his breath, and for a moment Henry could pretend he was still some village bumpkin who hadn't been forced into a war he never wanted to be a part of.
He felt a few more tears trail down his face, but Hans gently wiped them away with his free hand. He continued to hum, his nonsensical song enough to loll Henry into a fitful sleep.
Perhaps things would be better when he woke up.