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It’s not Hans.
The bandit’s dull blade bites into Henry’s shoddy gambeson, a shocked groan escaping him from the impact of the hit.
He should have blocked it. He’s better than this. But his eyes can’t seem to focus right.
It’s not Hans.
He needs to get his sword up. He needs to stop glancing over at the ground, because that’s not where the next attack is coming from. He needs to block the next blow or he’ll end up in the dirt like the corpse he’s fighting over.
It’s not Hans.
Blond hair shining at a distance. It could have been a coin lying in the road just waiting to be plucked and put in Henry’s pocket. It could have been a blade or a hunter’s trap, gleaming in invitation in the morning sun.
It was a corpse, stripped, facedown, pale skin, blond hair shaved close at the sides, broad shoulders, and that’s the only look Henry got before the bandit descended.
The bandit who did this, who killed this man, whoever he is because he’s not Hans, and left him on the road rot, and Henry tries to hold on to that anger as he blocks another blow and ripostes. He tries to breathe.
Muscle memory kicks in, and he follows one strike with another, driving the bandit back from his prey. He doesn’t even see him, the bandit is faceless, his angry words just noise against the buzzing in Henry’s ears. All he sees is that glimmer that brought him here, a corpse in the dirt blinding him at a distance, blinding him even as he stands over him, like a bear guarding her cubs.
The bandit falls and Henry’s sword follows.
It’s the silence that makes him realize it is over. The man has stopped baiting Henry, has stopped shouting, has stopped everything, because Henry plunged his sword into his neck.
He stands, catching his breath. A trickle of sweat rolls down his forehead to his nose and then hangs on the tip, tickling him. It takes effort to remember how to move his hand to wipe it away, but when he does, the urgency to know hits him in a rush and he falls to his knees next to the corpse and shoves the cold body onto its back.
It’s not Hans.
The stranger looks at the sky with unseeing eyes, and now Henry realizes the blond is the wrong color, too pale, not golden.
He crosses himself, but he can’t think of what words to pray for this man, because he is so glad that this man is dead and Hans isn’t. He is so glad he’s not looking at Hans. He is so glad that he is crying, big tears rolling down his cheeks.
He knows he should get out of the road. He knows he should strip that bandit just as that bandit stripped this man and he should take everything of value and he should run. He needs the money. He needs something better than his now torn and bloody gambeson. He needs to not be found here, next to two corpses in the dirt on the road, neither of whom is Hans.
Henry pulls his knees to his chest and he cries.