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The fire on the horizon was gradually turning to embers. Golden rays of sunlight illuminated the battlefield, weaving through the metal of the fallen and dancing on the silent wind.
It was almost peaceful.
But the sun wasn’t supposed to feel cold, and the air wasn’t supposed to taste of death.
Godwin walked alone through the endless empty sea, searching tirelessly for the one thing he never truly wanted to find.
Little did he know that his quest would be over before it had ever really started.
Two lovers slept eternally under the dappled light of a tree, far enough away from the battlefield that their final moments would have been theirs to share alone. Through the madness and chaos, the boy from Skalitz and Rattay's heir had managed to find their way home, back safely to where they belonged in one another’s arms.
Perhaps such fortune was simply life’s parting gift before she passed them gently into death’s warm embrace; a silent apology for the love they had been forced to hide in the shadows. They wore that love so openly now, hands and limbs twisted so fervently together that not even the end of all things could ever hope to part them.
The broken holes in their armor mirrored each other too perfectly to simply be coincidence too. It was as if the same blade had passed through both of their bodies, entering Hans first from behind as he fought to protect the man who had become so much more than just a friend to him. His body alone had seemingly not been enough to stop the weapon though, acting instead as a guiding force as it sped towards its intended target, binding them forever in tarnished blood and steel.
Godwin wondered briefly which of them had been first to set foot into the next life.
Had it been Hans, who finally seemed at peace after years of carrying the suffocating burdens of war and duty. Or had it been Henry, who’s eyes were closed in silent acceptance, the memory of a smile dancing upon his lips.
It didn’t truly matter, but Godwin hoped that somehow, they had parted from this world in the same manner that they had existed in it; together.
In the end he buried them there where they had fallen, never once pausing to realise the significance of the tree that took them readily into its roots. If his grief addled mind had taken a moments respite, he might have remembered that somewhere, far away in a settlement lost to the ashes of war, a different pair of lovers rested under strikingly familiar branches.
It was a funny thing really, how life worked out.
When he finally finished his task under the guidance of the crescent moon, he placed three flowers upon the mound of dirt that now held them, whispering out a blessing to the softly howling wind.
A marigold for Hans’ joy.
A dandelion for Henry’s hope.
And finally, a clump of twisted forget-me-nots that sung out their devotion for all the world to hear.
There was no grand tombstone, or elaborate family crypt.
Just Hans and Henry.
Free at last to love, and bound together for the rest of time.