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"Are you cold?" Henry asked.
Without armor, in hose and gambeson, he was still an imposing figure: tall and broad, hands stained with dirt and blood, jaw stubbornly stiff. His bare feet were a shock of white in the dirt. He held his helm with both hands, embracing the metal into his belly. His hair was damp with sweat. There was another string of bruises on his throat, shaped like two wide thumbs.
Hans looked away. The tunic around Henry's knee had darkened. Blood was trickling into the dirt.
Hans kills a man, prepares for a wedding, and tries to do at least one thing right.
(Or: five times Hans and Henry didn't share a bed, and one time they did.)
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I'm your man. omfg i dig this so hard
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"Your friends will be treated well," said von Bergow. "When there is nothing left to learn, they will die quickly and painlessly. They will receive proper burials. I will tell you where, so you may visit them after your uncle pays your ransom."
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