Chapter Text
The warm afternoon sun was slowly working it’s way over the horizon. A gentle autumn breeze was mellowing down the still lingering summer heat.
Henry sat hunched over the cluttered workbench like a monk at prayer, except his scripture was a dented gauntlet, and his hymns were the steady clang of the hammer and the calm, rhythmical whistling melody he enjoyed to accompany his work with. A patch of chainmail soaked in vinegar-water nearby, hissing softly when he plunged his wire brush into it. Bits of rust flew like sparks from a fire, landing on his tunic, like small freckles, as he worked over the weather worn metal. His sleeves were rolled, his brow glistened, and the smell of oil and old leather clung to him like the slight layer of sweat on his neck.
It was honest work. Quiet work.
Which was precisely why young Heinrich had decided to intrude upon it.
He sat on the nearby bench, legs dangling off the edge, one boot tapping a slow, uncertain rhythm. His doublet was far too fine for the forge, all embroidered cuffs and pearly buttons, and it clashed magnificently with the soot-streaked man besides him.
His favourite hat, some floppy feathered monstrosity, had been tossed aside. His expression was fixed in that dramatic pout unique to boys of noble birth who weren’t quite sure what to do with themselves when they weren’t being the center of attention.
In all this, he reminded Henry way too much of his father, causing him a fond smile to creep onto his face.
The boy said nothing.
Though, Henry noted without looking up, a certain tension in his silence. Something was eating at him.
Usually, Heinrich voiced his opinions about everything. How swords were too heavy, how horses smelled, how hot the sun was, how deeply dull it was to be alive and twelve. Today, though, he had floated into the smithy like a cloud of perfume and expensive boredom, and had yet to say a word.
Henry didn't press. He silently dipped a rag into the oil, and began massaging it into the leather straps of the gauntlet. The clink and shuffle of his work filled the air like an old, familiar song.
He'd learned by now that Heinrich, at the start of an age, where boys who didn’t want to be treated like boys, needed a bit of room to sidle up to their troubles sideways.
It had only been a matter of time, until Heinrich hesitantly spoke up.
“…Do you think girls prefer poets or swordsmen?”
Henry paused. Blinked at the gauntlet, collecting his thoughts. Then he glanced up, catching the boy's sideways stare, half-buried in tousled blond hair and noble pride.
He gave a slow shrug, letting the pause hang just long enough to make the boy’s fingers twitch nervously.
“Well,” Henry started tentatively, it wasn‘t like he’d be the expert on gaining a woman’s heart, “depends whether the girl's the sort who wants her heart wooed or her father threatened.”, he joked half-heartedly.
A beat of silence.
Henry huffed a small laugh, this seemed to turn into a more serious conversation. He put down his work, cleaning his hands roughly on a piece of cloth and turned towards the boy.
„It really depends on the girl, I’d say.“, the boy didn’t return Henry’s gaze. Though, he also didn’t say anything to interrupt him, so Henry continued.
„Some girls prefer poems, kind, heartfelt words. And others prefer someone who’s a strong swordsman, galant and able to protect them.“
“And…How do you know?”
“Know what?”
“If a girl likes you.”
His fingers toyed with a loose thread on his cuff, twisting and untwisting it.
Henry didn’t answer at once. He returned his attention to the gauntlet, running his hand over the dent in its curve, as though the silence itself was part of the answer.
“You don’t,” he said finally. “Not at first.”
Heinrich frowned, disappointed. “That’s not helpful.”
Henry shrugged. “It’s true, though. You can’t read a person like a signpost. You have to get to know them, learn, like anything worth knowing. You listen. You pay attention. You find out what makes her laugh, what makes her go quiet. What matters to her.”
“That sounds like it takes forever.”
„The finest things tend to take time. The best smith work, is the one carefully and patiently forged.“
There was a pause. Heinrich picked up his discarded hat and turned it in his hands, quieter now.
„And if she doesn’t like you?“
Henry leaned his arms on the table, voice steady.
“Look, if you want to know if a girl likes you, you’ve got to show her who you are. Not what you think she wants. You don’t win her over with poetry you don’t understand or a sword you can’t lift. You talk to her. Ask about the things she likes. Not to impress her, just to know her.”
Heinrich huffed. “But what if she’s not interested?”
“Then she’s not the girl for you.”
“I was hoping for something more dramatic.”, he groaned frustrated.
Henry smirked. This could have easily come out of someone else’s mouth. So very familiar to him.
“Suppose I do ask her what she likes,” Heinrich said after a pause. “What if she says something strange? Like… turnips.”
Henry snorted. “Then you ask her why she likes turnips.”
“And what if she says ‘falconry’?”
Henry grinned. “Then you’d best start reading about birds, if you want to have something to talk with her about.”
“What if she doesn’t want to talk to me at all?”
Henry glanced up. “Then you give her a reason to.”
Heinrich raised a brow. “Like what? A sonnet?”
“No.” Henry gave him a pointed look. “Something simple. Something kind. Something that’ll make her smile. Like flowers.”
Heinrich blinked. “Flowers?”
“Aye. They still work, last I checked.”
“Father said that’s something peasants did when they had no coin for a gift.”
Henry leaned back a bit, stretching out his shoulders. “And yet it works, doesn’t it? You don’t need to come bearing jewels or some poor bard you’ve paid to rhyme ‘moon’ with ‘June.’ You want to talk to her? Bring her something beautiful, something put time and thought into. It says enough.”
“But what if she doesn’t like the flowers?”
“Then she’ll still like that you thought of her.”
Heinrich was quiet for a moment, visibly weighing the thought. “Do I just… hand them to her?”
“Well, don’t throw them at her. And don’t go flinging petals dramatically across the courtyard.”
„I’m not my father.“
Henry chuckled.
„And then? What am I supposed to even say?“
„Don’t think too hard about it. Be honest. Tell her what caught your eye about her, tell her she interests you. If she smiles, that’s your opening. Ask her something real. Not about the weather. Something that makes her talk.”
Heinrich tilted his head. “Like what?”
“Ask her the last thing that made her laugh. Or the most ridiculous thing she’s ever done in court. Or… if she could be anywhere in the world, where she’d go.”
Heinrich blinked again, this time more slowly, like he hadn’t expected something so… straightforward.
“…That’s actually not bad.”
Henry smirked without looking up. “I have my moments.”
“You ought to write a book.”
Henry picked up the wirebrush again. “And you ought to go pick some damn flowers.”
Heinrich stood slowly, brushing imaginary dust off his doublet. “You’re sure this works?”
“No. But it’s better than sitting here sulking about theoretical conversations.”
“…All right,” Heinrich said, tugging his hat back on. “But if I come back with a crushed ego, I’m totally blaming your judgement.”
Henry raised a hand in mock salute. “As your humble servant, m’lord, I shall bear the full weight of your romantic catastrophe with all due shame. I’ll even fetch the bandages for your pride and a eulogy for your dignity. Shall I prepare a grave for it behind the stables?“
Heinrich narrowed his eyes at Henry’s bow, lips twitching despite himself.
“You’re impossible, Uncle Henry.“
Henry gave a lopsided grin.
Heinrich turned as if to go, then hesitated. His voice came a little quieter, less wrapped in performance.
„But… thank you.“, he went for the trodded out garden path, trying not to look like he was hurrying.
Henry watched him go with a small smile, then went back to work.
***
Heinrich squatted awkwardly by the garden wall, squinting at a patch of wildflowers that had invaded the more “proper” landscaping like cheerful rebels.
A few scraggly cornflowers nodding in the breeze. They looked small and rather… underwhelming.
He leaned down, plucked one stem, held it up, and immediately second-guessed everything. They weren’t roses. They weren’t arranged. They were just… wild.
“What do you got there?,” came his mother’s voice behind him.
He yelped and nearly dropped it.
“Mother!” he said, quickly standing up, the stem still clutched in his hand. “You startled me.”
Jitka gave him a mild look, hands tucked into the sleeves of her robe. “I was just taking a walk. Saw you crouching in the weeds like a suspicious little rabbit.”
“I wasn’t crouching,” he muttered, then glanced at the flower in his hand. After a brief internal struggle, he held it up. “Would you… like these? Do you think they’re nice?”
Jitka stepped closer and looked at the little flower he’d gathered, her brow rising ever so slightly, realization creeping in.
“Well,” she said diplomatically, “it‘s sweet. But cultivated roses are much prettier. Fuller. More refined.”
Heinrich blinked. “Oh.”
Jitka gave him a knowing side-glance, but said nothing. She simply turned and walked on, humming faintly to herself.
Heinrich’s eyes wandered to the flower in his hand and then to the beautiful red roses blooming in well cared for bushes.
***
The door to his father’s study was half-open, the late light slanting through the tall windows and catching on the edges of books, parchment, and glass. Heinrich paused in the corridor.
He hadn’t meant to stop. Just passing by.
But then he saw them.
A small bundle of wildflowers, a colorful mix of reds and yellows, the blue of a cornflower or two, resting on the edge of the desk beside a neatly folded letter and his father’s inkwell.
Not arranged. Not trimmed. Just laid there, carelessly, like someone hadn’t quite decided what to do with them yet, or carefully, placed there with purpose and intend, he couldn’t tell.
He stepped in without thinking, drawn to them. Familiar. The kind that grew in the garden, by the walls, between the stones.
The kind he had thought to pick, not long ago.
He stared at them a moment, then smiled, puzzled, faintly amused. He imagined his father giving them to his mother with a gallant smile and some terribly charming line. That would be just like Hans Capon.
But he hesitated.
His parents… they weren’t romantic. Not in the flowers-and-verses sort of way, that he had read about in the ballads and sonnets. They were fond of each other, certainly respectful, but not the kind of couple to get tangled up in grand gestures. At least not since he could think and remember.
But maybe that was how things went, once you married a lady you fancied. Maybe the butterflies, Heinrich felt now, would fade and leave warmth and laughter. He wouldn’t hate that.
Had his father also gotten advice? On how to put a smile on the face of the fair lady, who holds your heart?
For the flash of a moment, passing as quickly as it came, a different image came to his mind.
Of the long hours Uncle Henry and Father spent in conversation, heads bent close over maps and wine and stories. The way their voices softened sometimes when they didn’t notice Heinrich passing by. His father’s hand on Uncle Henry’s leg, an exchange of smiles that sparked something in their eyes, that Heinrich didn’t know where to place.
He never said anything about it. He didn’t know what it meant.
Still, he looked down at the wildflowers again, then gave a quiet little huff of a laugh.
“She doesn’t even like wildflowers,” he murmured aloud, more to the empty room than to anyone else.
He smiled as he imagined his, sometimes embarrassingly theatrical, father, who could make ordering wine sound like a court proclamation, hand this simple unrefined bouquet to his classy mother.
She’d surely be grateful nonetheless, even if she didn’t like these kind of flowers, like Uncle Henry had said.
He wondered if his father had picked them himself. Had he hunched down to cut them? His father who wouldn’t get his hands dirty unless he’d do so while holding a sword?
Lost in thoughts, he looked at the flowers for some time. But he didn’t touch them. Just left them there, on the desk.
Let them mean what they would.
And when he turned to go, there was still that smile tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth, not knowing, not sure, but somehow… glad.