Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Two months.

Two glorious, intense months.

That is all the time Hans has been afforded before destiny, in the shape of his Uncle, had come calling. He has tried to compress what remains of his youth into the interceding period between Suchdol and his wedding, but even so, two months has been a cruelly scant term. In his mind, he had planned a whirl of hunting, riding, wenching and drinking… a festival of freedom to purge before his impending incarceration, but in his heart? A different plan entirely. A plan which ached for far longer than two moons. A plan which would have consumed a lifetime, had he been allowed to choose his own path. His last unmarried days should have allowed him to clear a page in preparation for his next chapter, but instead he has simply filled it with even more verse, he has written words of love until every inch of it is black with sentiment. 

And now here he is: sat atop Aethon in some godforsaken field outside the walls of Kunstadt awaiting his future bride and her retinue. He has tried hard to let go of the mocking name he has taken to describe her - Adversaria - but it so perfectly suits the image of her in his mind that he fears he might blurt it out at the first sight of her.

In the proceeding week he has given in and requested some intelligence about his situation, and despite the fact that he has been reassured that she is both grotesquely rich and appallingly pleasing to the eye, he is still unwilling to succumb to the possibility that happiness is about to appear over the crest of the hill which lays before them. There is too much that he is not willing to sacrifice, even if she turns out to be a goddess made of pure gold.

At least he has been allowed to bring his own party: an allowance made with no small amount of begrudgement from Hanush, considering who has tagged along. As a fellow man of Kunstadt, Hynek has impishly insisted on coming, and in bringing Janosh as his personal escort. Whatever happens, Hans supposes,  there will be plenty of booze and half decent sausages with those two in tow.

Godwin, of course, sits behind them, although indications from those close to The Adversaria suggest that Godwin’s lapses in both nobility and vocation may not make him a particularly welcome house guest. As if Godwin gives a fuck. As if anyone in their right mind would. Hans has come to believe that he is no longer in the business of casting judgement on others (time will tell if this is indeed the case), but he is also not above leveraging his status to ensure those close to him remain so.

Those such as Henry. 

Henry, who flanks him now on his right, a foil to the coming danger: a page written over with words of love and light in stark contrast to the bare verses of all others. Hans steals a glance at him, and even in this moment, his face is calm, although those blue eyes fix resolutely ahead. 

He had seemed less certain as they lay chest to chest the night before, Henry smuggled into Hans’ tent when the camp had fallen silent. Only Mutt knew of their arrangements, the secret keeper of their illicit affair and a loyal footwarmer in the two winter months they had been making their vows together in secret. Henry had held Hans, channeling his stout, straightforward bravery into him and whispering reassurances that neither of them would be parted as long as they lived. In the past, Hans has gladly promised riches and lands to his man as reward for his impressive feats, but these offers are now gone by mutual agreement: were Henry to ascend, his place would be elsewhere, away from Hans. One marriage is bad enough between a brotherhood such as theirs. Two would be unthinkable. Henry has pledged everything to his lord, in mind, body and soul, and despite the fact that Hans whispers the same promises against Henry’s lips in the night, even he is not heedless to the fact that he can never equally pledge himself as long as the laws of God exist. 

From tomorrow, Henry and Hans will become Henry, Hans and The Adversaria. It sounds almost like a tale from legend, and this makes him smile for the first time since sunrise. Perhaps this tale will have a happy ending, unlike Lancelot and Galehart.

A boyish fantasy dreamt by a man.

His neck feels unnaturally stiff in its collar, and he notices that the first signs of spring are already appearing. Somewhere, in the grass, an insect buzzes, busily ignoring the plight of the man who sits between his uncle and lover across the way. The air is light and fresh, and he regrets wearing his heavier, winter attire. Soon it will be peak hunting weather - the wash of spring bringing new life to the forests and with it, the primal instincts of its inhabitants. He has already resolved to return to Rattay as soon as possible, keen to resume some of the trappings of his former life with wife in tow. The Dry Devil has joked once or twice that The Adversaria keeps a brood of hawks which she may set against him should he stray, and all that Hans has taken from this is that she may understand his need to ride out. He intends to leverage any advantage with her so that he might continue to live his life as freely as possible. He knows he is charming, but whether or not she is as susceptible to it as a farmer’s daughter remains to be seen. Henry says that it is vital for Hans to seek common ground with her. He says it will ease his days to know that she is a loyal and forgiving wife, and that kindness and amity are the key to this.

Hans cannot understand how Henry can talk so casually about his relationship with another: whenever he closes his eyes and imagines Henry courting anyone but him he feels a profound sadness which he cannot shake for hours after. They have taken a handful of bathmaids and local girls to their bed together since Suchdol, but both men treat this as sport, or a distraction from their more frequent, meaningful activities. Hans supposes that he still finds joy in the female form, and sometimes misses the softness of a pair of tits in his hands. Henry is all angles and sinew: carved from the earth to push and pull and knead Hans beneath his calloused palms. Thinking of this causes the air around him to become warmer. But then, perhaps The Adversaria will be something different again… Perhaps she will be so fair that he can find a way to put a son in her and continue on with his life. 

The thought lingers for a moment and he cannot work out how it makes him feel. At one time he would have delighted in the idea of a beautiful wife, but today, it strikes discord in his chest. He cannot love two people, and should that come to pass, he knows that duty and the natural order of things will win out and he will relent and dismiss his lover for his wife.

He would lose Henry. 

Aethon picks up on his sudden panic, and the charger shakes his head with a loud snort. 

“Are you okay my lord?” Henry asks immediately.

“A little warm,” Hans replies. He does not take his eyes off the hill. 

“What the hell is keeping them?” Hanush puffs. His horse has been gently padding the ground for a few minutes, as impatient as its master.

Godwin replies from the rear. “Nerves, I suppose,” he says kindly. “A bride’s prerogative.”

“Bollocks,” his uncle says, “she’s had two months to get her head around the fact and it’s not as though she’s being forced to marry a hunchback. It’ll be Botschek playing his hand. Making us wait to remind us who’s house we’re in.”

Hans can’t argue with his logic. Whenever he has ever met Botschek of Kunstadt, he has appeared to be a man with no concept of his own likeness in the broad canvas of humanity. Henry would probably suggest using this fact as yet another way to bond with The Adversaria: their shared experiences with difficult uncles would surely mean plenty to talk about across a shared pillow. 

Hans’ mind inserts Henry into the mental image, sandwiched between man and wife, grinning like a dog with two dicks. He shakes his head with a tiny smile. The entire situation is so ridiculous that he supposes he cannot afford further anxiety. If only they would bloody arrive!

And then, as though someone somewhere hears his prayer, a horn sounds and a bright flag appears over the grassy curve of the hill. If anyone had doubted Hanush’s word about the family’s desire to put on a show, they were surely eating their words now. There must be twenty or so men at arms surrounding Botschek and what was presumably his son and wife. Hans tries to appear impassive as he slowly scans the party for any hint of a girl his age, but he sees only men and the older woman at Botscheks’ left. He almost barks a laugh as he suddenly wonders if everyone has been joking about how pretty his bride is, and that this old husk might actually be the one he is to marry. If that is the case he’lll need more than a flask of schnapps and a willing spirit to fill her belly - he’lll need a wagon of oysters, a priest and a blindfold.

He’ll tell Henry that one later, knowing that it’ll make him laugh. Oh god, he hopes he gets a few hours alone with him before the inevitable feast. Just enough to look into his eyes and reassure himself that everything will be alright.

They are close now. Coming to a stop. There is still no sign of her, although he now supposes that she will be presented as some sort of grand gesture. Everyone will be looking at him to see his reaction. What if his face betrays him? He knows full well that Hynek and Janosh are pissing themselves behind him, and that Godwin will have that melancholy bloody expression on his face. He looks again at Henry who thankfully this time looks back and gives him a smile. That’s all he needs to calm himself a little. He can focus on Henry. No one else exists at this moment. 

Hanush rides forward a little as the other party halts before them. It feels like an exchange of hostages is about to occur.

“Botschek.” His uncle nods as the older man. In return he receives a curt nod. “We thought you weren’t coming.”

The joke lands only with Botschek’s wife and son, who both laugh politely. However, it is not enough to break the obvious tension. 

“We had some additional arrangements to take care of,” Botschek concedes at last. “A few additional wedding arrangements; you know how it is.”

A loud “Ha!” comes from the line behind the lord and his family. Botschek’s lips go thin and Hans notices that his knuckles tighten on the reins. 

“Well,” he says in a thin voice, “we might as well introduce the happy couple to one another. Seeing as my niece's custodians would clearly like to move things along.”

He tips his head and the men to his right move forward to make way for those at the rear to pass through the line. 

Hans is no longer panicking, he is simply intrigued by the voice who dares to puncture Botschek’s pomposity. A grand white mare appears from between the gap topped by a small, richly dressed woman. This surely cannot be her : the woman has forty years on her and even though her attire is well-made, it is clearly suited to a widow. 

“My late brother’s wife, Jitka of Medritsch,” Botschek drawls, with all the warmth of a wet bog. “Soon to be your mother in law, Master Capon.”

Hans ignores the belittling epithet and gives the elder Jitka his best smile. He instinctively knows that she is the source of the scornful laugh, and it makes him like her. She smiles in return, but it is a courtly performance and he knows he will have to do better than rely on charm alone to win this old bird over. He is surprised by how much he would like that.

And then, before he can speak, her horse has moved on and the next one is coming.

His first reaction is shock. Despite the fact that he has been thinking about this moment for two solid months, he realises that he is not remotely prepared for the experience of seeing the woman he is destined to spend the rest of his life with for the first time. He does not breathe as she emerges, deftly controlling the horse beneath her crimson skirts whilst observing him with sharp green eyes. He feels the weight of their gaze, sees the desire to find him wanting, and all he can do is straighten his back and nod to her. If he has not been struck dumb by her obvious beauty, it is because the descriptions he has been given have been somewhat inaccurate. She is not a delicate petal or a glass princess: she is stridently handsome in a way which he cannot help but find intimidating. Her face wears a truculent expression, as though she is here by duress, and he supposes that she is, indeed, just like him. 

How strange that he had not considered that she may be anything other than nervous or blushingly reluctant. How strange that he had assumed that she would not possess the sort of demeanour which indicated a clear intention to eat him alive for breakfast once he has performed his singular duty as a husband. How strange that she is both beautiful and rich as promised, but also alive, and real and obviously feeling as much like a cog in a clock as he is. 

He tries his winning smile again, but her face does not change and she looks away towards the horizon.

The moment has passed, and it is forever too late for first impressions.

Chapter Text

The room is comfortably furnished, with a good bed and carved wood furnishings. If Botschek is showing off, it’s a relief to Hans. Despite the fact that he would have spent the rest of eternity in that cold room above The Devil’s Den if it meant he could share a bed with Henry, he can still admit that he has never really been cut out for the simple life. 

He sighs as he collapses on to the richly embroidered counterpane. He is finally free of armour and it feels incredible. 

As he lays there, he realises that he has probably not been alone for longer than the time it takes to shit in months. He and Henry have been inseparable since the moment Hanush left them after the siege. This thought brings a creeping unease: the room suddenly feels very small, and the bed curtains hang above him with menacing solidity. He recognises the old terror immediately, and springs up from his repose, heading towards the window where he might see daylight.

The shutters open easily and a gentle breeze hits him, along with the smells of the various activities in the yard below. The sound of the castle blacksmith’s hammer punctuates the chattering of servants and the familiar buzz of castle life transports him back to Pirkstein and simpler times. 

He will find a way to make his situation work: Hanush cannot surely withhold his inheritance indefinitely, and despite the inauspicious beginnings of his marriage, he will ensure that Jitka finds enough merit in him to overlook long absences which require the presence of a bodyguard.

Jitka . The mental switch to her true name takes him by surprise and he realises it is because she is now a creature of flesh rather than myth. He tries to recall her in full and she appears in his mind as a confusion of crimson velvet and white skin. Her hair (auburn, he thinks, or is it brown?) swirls about her head as he imagines her, and those piercing green eyes burn until the rest of her fades and all he can see is her disdain, and worse, her disappointment.

He has to get out. Find some air, and Henry. Christ, even the Dry Devil will do at this point. Anyone who can look at him without his soul withering in his chest. 

He goes to the basin and pours a little water from the jug beside it. A quick splash on his face, and he is ready to explore, but just as he is about to leave, there comes a brisk, rhythmic knock on the door. Only one other person would use that knock. It is a secret shared.

Henry has changed from his travelling clothes into the deep blue pourpoint which prompts Hans’ compliments each and every time he wears it. His longsword sits at his hip, and he rests his left hand on the pommel, as always. Hans has memorised all of Henry - his every posture and expression and phrase - and seeing him before him now makes the room explode with colour and light. 

He is no sooner in the room and the door closed behind him, that they are locked in an embrace. Henry, who is slightly shorter, nestles his face into Hans’ neck, and the scratch of his stubble against Hans’ soft skin there is a balm. Their hands gently roam and pluck at fabric, until Hans cannot resist and moves his palms to cradle Henry’s face, urging it up from his shoulder to where their lips meet. The familiar taste of him settles Hans. The way he breathes a little heavier when Hans caresses his ear, and the way he grazes his teeth across Hans’ lower lip do something entirely different.

It is Henry who pulls back first, although he is smiling. Hans huffs a little; were it up to him, they would be well on the way to undressing by now. The bed is soft and the late morning is warm. There could be no better way to spend the hours before a feast than taking full advantage of a little comfort. 

Henry is resolute, however. “We have to be careful. Someone is going to notice if we both go missing.”

“We’ll tell them we went for a ride,” Hans pouts. “Or that we got locked in the cellar stealing wine. I don’t care.” He steps forward and toys with Henry’s belt, although he knows that his efforts will be in vain. Henry is right, as usual. It doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it, though.

Henry’s strong hand stills the ones on his belt. 

“I have some information, if you must know. I thought I’d come and tell you, then we can go down and see the others. Godwin is worried about you.”

“It’s his fault I’m in this bloody mess!”

“Ah, you know he had no choice. And it doesn’t stop him worrying.”

Hans drops into a chair, a little too sulkily. He knows that he is behaving like a brat, but he cannot help himself. Everything feels unfair. At one time, he might have lashed out at Henry, or found something to complain about to an unfortunate servant, but time and hardships have mellowed the Lord of Pirkstein. And love. 

Well, perhaps love most of all. 

“Go on then,” he sighs, “What have you learned?”

Henry adjusts his sword and settles on the edge of the bed. He leans forward and clasps his hands together. It’s a routine so familiar to Hans that he is taken aback by the same feeling he’d had when he opened the window. Henry, as much as Rattay, has become his sense of home.

“I’ve been chatting with the blacksmith,” he begins.

“Of course,” adds Hans. 

“Yes, well, I like to see what’s what in a new place, and I know what I’m about when I talk to a blacksmith. It’s always the best place to start, I find.”

Hans raises a mischievous eyebrow. “I always find that I have better luck with the serving girls.” 

Henry simply shakes his head. “Don’t I bloody know it? Anyway - “

“Anyway.”

“ Anyway , the blacksmith tells me that there’s been a bit of a commotion this morning. Something over at the stables in the early hours. So that was my next stop.”

Hans is impressed. In the space of an hour or so, Henry has been busy. Not that he is surprised: Henry is incapable of remaining stationary for too long unless he is asleep. Preferably in the arms of his best friend. “What happened?” He asks, now invested. For all Hans is a man raised by men, he has never been able to resist gossip. He props his chin on his fist and urges Henry to continue. 

“Well,” Henry goes on, “The stablehand wasn’t as keen to take time out of his day to talk to a stranger at first, but he just needed a bit of coaxing. Luckily, I had that spare set of horseshoes I’d made for Herring just lying about, and suddenly, he was feeling pretty chatty.”

“That’s my Henry,” Hans smiles, enjoying the bashful expression his words elicit.

“Ha, well, I was starting to suspect that this might be an interesting story, and I wanted to make sure I got all the details. Once the stablehand got talking, it was easy to find out what happened.”

“Which was?”

“That your betrothed was returned to the castle kicking and screaming just before dawn this morning, along with her horse, her dog, a bow and enough supplies to last her for a week.”

Hans cannot resist the laugh which bubbles up from his chest. “The little harridan!”

“I know,” Henry chuckles, “apparently Botschek himself was out in the courtyard in his nightshift calling her all the names under the sun and threatening to send her off to a nunnery until finally she set her hound on him! He had to run inside before it tore his arse off.” 

They are both laughing now, and even though he knows he should be horrified, Hans cannot help but feel a little relief at the fact that his fiancee is clearly less well-liked than he himself is.

“At least that means that Botschek will be glad for me to take her back to Rattay,” he says. “Although she’ll probably run off at the first opportunity. Oh God Henry, what a fucking mess. We continue to accrue complications.”

“Aye,” Henry says gently, “we might have seen the only peace we’re ever likely to get in the last two months.”

They fall silent for a moment, and Hans suddenly needs to feel the weight of him, so he goes to sit on the bed. Henry takes his hand at once and they are suddenly back in Suchdol - unsure how to proceed; terrified of what will come next. 

“I think that this is a good thing,” ventures Hans. 

“Really?” Henry seems surprised. 

“Yes, I do. For one, it explains the fact that Botschek was so keen to marry her off, and that gives us the upper hand. I can’t imagine him complaining about us bringing Hynek or Godwin now, can you? And secondly, if she had a bow and hound, then we can assume that she isn’t averse to hunting.”

Henry looks blank. “I appreciate the first point, but why is the fact that she hunts important?”

“Because,” Hans tuts, “one: it means common ground for us, which you yourself said was important…”

“True.”

“And two, if things get really bad, we can take her off to a suitable clearing and do her in. Say a boar did it.” Hans looks at Henry, enjoying the moment it takes for him to process.

After a while, Henry smiles and rolls his eyes. “Bah, you’re having me on, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am, Henry,” Hans grins. “I promise that I will not murder my wife and blame it on a boar. Even if she sets her hounds on me.”

“Mutt’ll protect you,” Henry says with a nudge. “And me too. If it comes to it.”

Hans looks him: his escort and bodyguard. Soft blue eyes meet his gaze, and Hans cups Henry’s cheek. 

“Where have they quartered you?” he asks.

“Two floors down. I get to share a room with Janosh.”

“Lucky you.”

“Lucky me.” 

“I suppose I’ll be busy tomorrow night, but surely a pre-wedding drink with my right-hand man after the banquet can’t be questioned?”

Henry’s eyes betray the anxiety behind them that only Hans knows exists. He frets constantly about what might happen were they to be caught. As a noble, Hans would suffer nothing like the same fate as him. 

“I’m sorry,” Hans removes his hand from Henry’s face. “I’m selfish to ask such a thing. I just -”

His words are cut off by a kiss, and Hans melts into it. 

“We can say you’re nervous,” Henry says, breaking the kiss, but resting his forehead against Hans’. “Or that you got so drunk I had to sit with you in case you fell out of the window.”

“Or that you were concerned my mad wife would sneak into my room and smother me,” Hans suggests. He plants a kiss on Henry’s nose and they both laugh. 

“Come on,” Henry says, rising to his feet and pulling Hans up with him. “You stink like a horse and the bathhouse awaits.”

“Ah but you forget, my future wife seems to prefer the company of dumb beasts. Oh! Perhaps she should marry you !”

Henry flicks Hans’ forehead and pushes him towards the door. “She does seem to be an excellent judge of character, My Lord. From the look of her she wanted to kill you before you even spoke. Usually it takes people a couple of minutes.”

“God help me, sixty thousand groschen taken out of my own pocket against my will and given to a wild animal of a woman to torment me for all eternity, and now my own page has taken to insulting me?”

Henry grabs Hans around his waist from behind and jolts him flush to his chest. His words come hot and low against Hans’s ear. “Call me your page again and I’ll gladly hold you down while she puts a child in you .”

The room disappears behind blond eyelashes, and Hans feels the immediate effect of Henry’s jibe. “You’re the one who’ll kill me in the end,” he breathes. 

They stand like that for a minute or so, the tension between them building until Hans decides, uncharacteristically, to move away. 

“Put on your mask, Lancelot. We have but a few hours until tonight. Let’s play our parts.”

Henry bows and they both smile the same sad smile they have been sharing since Suchdol. 

“To the bathhouse, my lord.”

“To the bathhouse, my love.”