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The ridges of the grand oak desk catch the small slivers of sunlight from the open window, streaming down from God's kingdom.
With a sigh that holds the heavy weight of longing, Hans glances outside. Rattay on a clear summer's day never fails to remind him of Henry's eyes, their colour depicting a perfect sky in June, his smile warmer and gentler than the sun.
Alas, Henry hasn't been in Rattay in a week, and Hans can feel it in the marrow of his bones. Restlessness stirs in every single one of his limbs, an ailment that only Henry knows how to ease out of him. In spite of the summer's warmth a cold shiver creeps up his spine, the phantom of a touch sealed away in a memory that, by this point, is far too distant.
Breathing deeply, Hans shakes the dreadful sorrow haunting him off and steadies himself, straightening his shoulder like he's preparing for battle. And perhaps he is; letters demand to be penned. On some days such a task can prove a bigger challenge than any duel, more so with Hans' body trapped in stagnation, in these four walls.
Because as grand as his new study in Pirkstein may be, with polished floors and the trophies of many hunts hung upon the walls, it all does little to keep Hans tied to his plush armchair.
But it can't be helped. Such are the dues of a nobleman. And so Hans accepts that the room smelling of old wood, leather, and ink is his cage for today and many days to come.
His elbow settles upon the desk, his left hand burdened with the monumental task of carrying the weight of his head, fingers entangling in his short hair. Sighing, his right hand reaches for the quill. And though he feels ready, the flood of parchments feels like it's going to bury him alive. Not literally, but the imagery settles within him. It frightens Hans.
A knock on the door, however, is his saving grace.
"Thank Mary," Hans grunts. When another knock echoes he notices that the noise is rather weak. He bids, "Enter."
Slowly but certainly the door creaks open, and Hans looks up. Only—there's no one there. At least until his gaze wanders lower, upon a tuft of fair hair that approaches the desk. Softly laughing to himself, Hans gets up and scoops his son up before he can get very far. "Now, now, what have we here? Shouldn't you be somewhere else entirely?"
Hans lifts Heinrich far above and spins him around before settling him in his arms. The boy giggles, and Hans grins. How easy it is to entertain a four-year-old. When Heinrich quiets down, he says, "Wanted to see Papa. Very important!" Seemingly innocence incarnate, his big eyes look up at his father.
In turn, Hans blinks. Curiosity and confusion arise within him in equal measure. "Oh, is that so? What could be so important that you've snuck away from your nanny once again?" His words are a concoction of playful and scolding, knowing damned well that he was no different as a boy. Christ above, during days on which he feels unbearably trapped he still runs away from the likes of Jitka and Hanush.
He hasn't run away yet today, although the excuses to simply saddle his horse and ride into the forest are beginning to stack as high as the parchments on his desk.
At least no one is pestering him. Both his wife and his uncle are occupied in the upper castle, where they discuss the intricacies of an upcoming festival. Then again, Hans wouldn't mind having Jitka here. In spite of his initial reluctance to wed a woman he's never seen, he has grown fond of Jitka rather quickly. Her sense of duty is only rivalled by her beauty as well as by her quick wit and dry humour that she dishes out effortlessly.
So distracted by his own thoughts, as he so often is, Hans only notices now that his son is presenting a single rose to him. "For you."
Immediately, Hans' fatherly instincts take over; his eyes examine Heinrich's tiny hands for cuts, but there's nothing of the sort to be found. Now all agog with curiosity yet again, he wonders, "From you?" He shifts Heinrich's by now considerable weight onto his right arm, taking the single flower into his left hand.
His son shakes his head. "Flowers are boring," he huffs. "But I promised uncle He—" Before the name leaves his mouth the boy clasps his hands in front of it, silencing himself. With wide eyes he looks at his father, who lifts his eyebrows.
A moment passes before Heinrich allows himself to speak again, slowly removing his hands from his mouth before putting them on his hips. It's one of Jitka's habits, and much to her chagrin their son has started to mimic her every move. Hans finds it endearing. "Not allowed to tell! He said you would know who the rose is from. Oh, and look. In a book. The book that—that—uhm—"
"I know which book," Hans says. "But he said that, aye? You don't happen to mean uncle Henry?"
Once more, Heinrich covers his mouth, wide-eyed and with his and Henry's barely disguised secret out on the table. The boy shakes his head nevertheless, always eager to keep his word. Especially when it's between him and Henry. Hans laughs, high and amused.
The rose's sender wasn't difficult to unveil, but it's not Heinrich's fault at all. No one except Henry knows that roses are Hans' favourite flower. He likes to let everyone else think that he does not care about such benign things, that courtship and romance means nothing to him, but Henry knows him better than anyone else ever has. He knows him better than Hans knows himself, truth be told.
Soft light from the blue sky Hans adores so, if only for the fact that it reminds him of Henry and of freedom, reflects in his eyes as he gives the rose a melancholy smile. A sigh threatens to spill out of him, but he swallows it down. He's in no mood to explain his dour mood to his son, who has been far too inquisitive for his own good as of late.
Odd then that Heinrich hasn't asked what the meaning of the rose is, but perhaps Henry has already explained it to him through one of his intricately crafted fairy tales. That man's silver tongue can be quite scary.
Chuckling, Hans puts the rose on top of the mountain of parchments and gives all of his attention to Heinrich. There's something behind his son's eyes that are so much like his mother's, yet they also bear the colour of Henry's hair. Hans knows exactly what it is that hides behind those chestnut eyes though. It is mischief, plain and simple. He smirks at his son, pride and love swelling in his chest. He shouldn't reward Heinrich's disobedience and his constant sneaking about, but he can't help himself.
After all, he swore to give his son everything that Hans himself missed during his boyhood—attention and love and affection. To his own shame he doesn't always manage to do so. Ironically enough it is either duty or egoism that prevent him from fulfilling his silent promise.
"Papa," Heinrich says then, dragging the word out—a plea if Hans has ever heard one.
"What is it, my darling boy?"
"Can we play?"
With remorse Hans shifts his gaze towards the responsibilities that await him on his desk before he looks back at his son. "In the evening, aye? Papa still has some work to do, and we should get you back to Magdalena before she worries herself sick."
And so the Lord of Pirkstein makes his way to the lower floor of his castle, his son riding on his shoulders, arms crossed and pouting. Heinrich is safely returned to the maidservant who has been looking for the young lord all over the lower castle's garden, where he usually hides. The young lass apologises to Hans with a deep bow though he waves her off, stating that he was a menace as a child too. And he still very much is.
Back by his lonesome, Hans makes his way to the castle's small but dense library, another addition of recent years. Not many people except for him and Jitka use it, seeing as Hanush has still not learned how to read. Henry uses the library too, but that's neither here nor there.
Hans enters the chamber lined with bookshelves. There's a table to play chess or farkle on at the centre of the room, but Hans darts past it and towards a shelf in the left-hand corner. His eyes fly over the many book spines until he finds the book he's looking for.
Lancelot of the Lake.
Helpless optimism blooms in Hans' heart as he reaches for it, and a tender smile plays around the corners of his mouth. He recalls the day in Kuttenberg on which Henry gifted him the book. Alas, he glances at the cover for a moment too long. Longing pulls at his heartstrings once more, unremitting in its cruelty.
Finally releasing the sigh he withheld in front of Heinrich, Hans gently opens the book. The room's single window is tucked into a niche, where a broad windowsill offers two sitting spots. From there, sunlight pours in and catches the dust motes milling in the air.
Hans catches those soft specks as he reads the book's first page, where nothing but the title should be. However, in the page's lower right corner is a message written in careful but gauche script. A message from Henry, a message that contains his first words penned in Latin as well as the lines he had since melted Hans' heart with over and over again.
Tuus in aeternum, lux mea.
In life and in death I am yours, for all my faith and devotion belongs to you, my beloved H.
Achingly tender, Hans guides the tips of his index and middle finger over the long-dried ink, absently tracing the dip and swirl of every letter while the world around him moves on.
The world, blissfully unaware of Sir Hans Capon's deep and fierce infatuation for his squire, whom he sends away on these errands and tasks that shall bring Bohemia peace, yet they bring the lord nothing but a terrible hurt in his chest.
After all, there is a possibility that Hans might still turn into Galehaut; his lover's life forfeit and his own life consumed by the yearning to hold the man he has sworn his heart to. A yearning that will remain forever unfulfilled.
Henry will be cold and dead in an unmarked grave, and all Hans is left with is this incessant ache coiling in his chest, a beastly thing that will strikes roots in his heart, gradually devouring every other feeling until it squeezes Hans tightly enough that he won't be able to breathe any longer.
And perhaps in a world without Henry, he does not want to.
Nothing would dull such a pain, if Lancelot's and Galehaut's story is to be believed.
Hans swallows with effort. His breath is shaky as he turns page by page until a neatly folded parchment falls out of the book. With quick reflexes he catches it, holding onto it so tightly that it forms a few creases. Forcing himself to relax, he puts the beloved book back into its place and makes his way back to his study, closing the door behind himself.
When he sits down behind his desk he unfolds the parchment that seems as fragile as his heart. A smaller parchment falls out of the bigger one, the script messy but unmistakably Henry's. It reads:
Seeing as you are undoubtedly in a prickly mood without me by your side, I hope this letter elevates your spirit.
Fret not, I showed your little bird how to pluck a rose without catching a thorn. He is a far more attentive listener than his esteemed father.
Hans rolls his eyes, though his stern expression falters after a heartbeat of consideration. Who would Henry be if he did not tease him?
He puts the small piece of parchment aside, his attention drawn to the actual letter that's written in tidier script, careful and considerate.
To H.
From H,
who swears to love you forever with heart and soul, who laments that we are apart every accursed hour, every dreadful moment. Away from you I find that nothing compares to the joy reflecting in your eyes, to the loveliness of your smile, to the comfort of your presence.
Had you not been brave enough for the both of us on that faithful yet dreadful day in June of 1403, my spirit might have been forever languished by the absence of your love.
As you kissed me with ardour and desire, I finally understood that my heart had chosen you, and had done so for some time.
Now, years later, I understand that the love you grant me is peerless. Sweeter than the purest honey and more valuable than all the tarnished silver in Bohemia.
My mind and body are delighted and soaring with you, and wearisome and heavy without you.
Heaven help me, I would accept the most wretched of deaths in your place, though I beseech God each and every night that such bitter fate will befall neither you nor me until I return to your warming embrace once more.
So worry not, my love, though I know you will in spite of my words. It is your nature, for which I adore you so. More every minute that we are apart, and more every second that we are together.
Just know that I will return to thee. Forever and always, as you are the only constant on my mind, my every thought endlessly and perpetually filled with you.
Tuus in aeternum, lux mea.
In life and in death I am yours, for all my faith and devotion belongs to you, my beloved H.
Hanks blinks. It doesn't work.
The world around him blurs. His lower lip trembles. A single, bittersweet tear slithers down his cheek.
Where there's one, another follows. Quiet and somber.
That does not stop him from reading the letter again. And again.
And again, after which he takes the rose in hand and leans back, crossing his legs. With a deep inhale he takes in the flower's rich fragrance, a smell that is reminiscent of the many times Henry has gifted him the symbol of love.
And then, for the first time today, he welcomes the familiar stir in his chest. It still claws at him, piteous and desperate. But Henry's words soothe the pain into something beautiful and hopeful. And into something unbelievably stubborn and valiant, just as their composer.
Even unspoken and mostly unwritten, Hans understands the purpose of the rose, of the letter. An anniversary, of sorts. One that the two of them will never be able to openly celebrate, yet each and every year in June they confess their love anew through words or deeds, just as Hans did in Suchdol.
When Hans dares to let his voice out again, he laughs. It is a soft, tender thing. Just as the rose, of which only Henry knows of and ever will.
And in a way Henry is like the rose, too. Soft and tender, yet not without his thorns. His armour red and his love true.
Hans smiles.
As time passes, he will open Lancelot of the Lake again, perhaps in a bout of pain, perhaps in a bout of joy, and look upon words of love and upon a pressed, dried rose.
It will remind Hans Capon of his very own Lancelot, of his red knight's love and devotion that have conquered him, heart and soul.