Chapter Text
“Kurva!” Hynek swore, looking at masses of dark clouds gathering on the sky. “Not fucking again.”
“At this time of year… I’m afraid it’s fucking again,” Kubyenka replied ironically, taking a small sip from a wooden mug.
A storm was coming.
A phenomenon that could be considered all too expected in early summer, when the longest days of the year were brutally interrupted by sudden heavy rainfall. Usually accompanied by wind, thunder, and flashing lightning.
“Yes, kurva, I can see! Again! Again it’s going to fucking rain for half the fucking day and night, then in the morning we’ll be wading knee-deep in mud and shit!” Devil snarled, rightly pointing out the inconveniences of the seasonal weather.
“Hynek, my friend…” the man continued, slowly getting up from the bench. “Give it a rest. We can drink inside. Come on, I’ve got some good booze.”
Devil wrinkled his nose, glancing first at the heavy sky, then at his brother in arms.
“Convinced!” he said, while his menacing face softened, as if he suddenly realized that no amount of curses shouted at the sky would make the weather change its mind and spare them the rain. Resigned, he followed Kubyenka, disappearing into the darkness of the Tavern.
Young Sir Hans Capon understood his sentiment a bit too well. Devil’s Den was an exceptionally uninteresting place, with its only advantage being the picturesque surroundings, rich in forests, streams and excellent hunting grounds. That advantage, however, disappeared the moment God decided to gift them with yet another downpour, leaving them with nothing but the dark, stuffy, and cramped interior of the tavern. And that offered only drinking (of the local, not very noble alcohol), playing dice (if one still had anything left to lose), and conversations in the company of the old regulars (which in no way could be considered exquisite).
In other words — complete boredom.
The nobleman, still standing in front of the entrance to the building and leaning against a pillar, began to notice other characteristic signs indicating the approaching rain. The innkeeper was leading the horses into the stable, Janosh was slowly emerging from behind the tall grass in which he so gladly disappeared for entire days, while in the forge the sounds of the hammer striking heated steel and the cheerful whistling had ceased.
Looking in its direction, he noticed Henry, until now completely absorbed in repairing the armor, set aside his tools and glanced at the storm clouds hanging over all of them. Tension in his eyes suddenly became visible.
It was the beginning.
He had noticed it for some time now — his dearest friend and recently a lover seemed to have a difficult relationship with the current weather. One that went far beyond a simple dislike of spending entire days in a small space with Dry Devil and Kubyenka or mud. Every time rain was coming, the blacksmith would grow strangely morose, most often disappearing into their shared room upstairs.
Hans had tried more than once to question his friend about the reasons for his poor mood — unsuccessfully. Henry always brushed him off, blaming it on fatigue. He however knew his friend well enough to know that this was simply not truth. Something was troubling him and the young man could not, for the life of him, figure out what it might be — and worse, he didn’t know how to help.
And he tried every way he knew. First by giving Henry space to go through his difficult emotions in his so desired solitude. He would then stay with the rest of Devil’s Pack, drinking and playing dice with them, regardless of whether he felt like it that day. This, however, brought no results — Henry continued to suffer, and Hans along with him.
So he decided to go upstairs with Henry every rainy evening. Here he also failed to achieve any significant success. As soon as he appeared in the room, the blacksmith would dismiss him, hiding behind fatigue, then curl up on his bed, facing the wall, as if he wished to hide both from Hans and from the rest of the world (which was all the less convincing given that since that memorable night in Suchdol, they had rarely slept in separate beds).
At last the young nobleman, deeply discouraged by yet another failed attempt at being quiet support and waiting for his beloved Henry to decide confession on his own, chose to act directly. He therefore elaborated a plan so perfect in its simplicity, yet polished down to the smallest detail, that it just could not fail.
And on that night, adorned with intense downpours of heavy rain and violent flashes of light, he was ready to put his brilliant plan into action.
So he continued to wait by his, for reasons not entirely known even to him, yet nonetheless favourite column — like a predator stalking its long-awaited prey.
Meanwhile, Henry shed his blacksmith’s apron and washed dust from his face in a nearby basin. Then, like everyone else, headed inside the building, passing Hans along the way.
“Are you going upstairs?” he asked, trying to sound as though he suspected nothing.
“Yes. To rest.”
After giving that curt answer, the young blacksmith crossed the threshold and headed straight for the stairs, leaving an irritated Sir Hans behind him. His own helplessness weighed heavily on him.
A deep breath followed as he already knew what to do next and was ready to act.
So he entered the tavern as the last one, additionally hurried along by the first, exceptionally heavy drops of rain. Then went straight upstairs, passing the table where Dry Devil, Kubyenka, and Janosh were drinking away the boredom.
Before he reached the upper floor, the rain had fully set in and the weight of the drops striking everything in their path created an oppressive, monotonous noise — a noise surpassed only by the thunder.
The storm had arrived.
Sir Hans Capon pushed the door of their shared room and slipped inside. There he found Henry sitting on the bed, hidden deep within the interior, struggling with his boots.
“Aren’t you downstairs?” the blacksmith asked, getting rid of his left shoe.
“No,” Hans replied quickly, then began thinking up excuses. “I don’t feel like drinking again the sour wine and if I lose even more at dice, Hanush will have both our heads.”
“Right,” Henry agreed quietly, clearly with no desire to continue this conversation.
For Hans however, this was only encouragement.
“You know…” he began, ready to set the trap. The opportunity presented itself perfectly as Henry had just placed his worn-out boots beside the bed and stood up, simultaneously pulling off his shirt. He then went to his chest to put it away along with the rest of the clothes he had taken off earlier. “…today was terribly exhausting. I think I’ll just lie down earlier.” He lied — which was not hard to guess, as he had spent the entire day merely wandering around Devil’s Den, looking for activities other than shooting a bow with Kubyenka and watching Henry work himself to the bone in the forge (which was decidedly one of the best entertainments the place had to offer).
As soon as the blacksmith straightened up again, Hans wrapped his arms around his bare chest from behind and placed a gentle kiss on the back of his neck.
He knew he wasn’t playing fair, but what choice did he have in this situation?
“Maybe you could join me?” he asked flirtatiously, at the same time testing with his hands how his beloved’s body reacted.
Henry’s muscles remained unbearably tense, making it clear that he was unable to relax at the moment. Yet despite his distress, he returned Hans’s touch, covering his ever-delicate noble hand with his own calloused one and pressing his warm forehead tenderly against Hans’s face. Even in such a moment, his weakness for him remained unmoved.
“I… I don’t think I’m in the mood today,” he replied cautiously, not wanting to offend the nobleman by refusing.
“Well, that works out perfectly, because neither am I!” he announced, truthfully. Nothing would kill his lust quite as effectively as the sight of a tormented Henry. “We’ll just lie down together,” he added, nestling closer to his blacksmith.
Unable to respond, he was merely stroking Hans’s hand with his thumb, giving the tenderness so characteristic of him.
Hesitation lingered.
He would have preferred to remain alone with his demons that night — and every other rainy night — yet the truth was that Henry simply could not refuse Sir Hans. Something the young nobleman at the beginning of their painfully forged friendship, had attributed to his status. Over time however, he came to understand that Henry’s devotion ran far deeper than any conventions or noble titles.
“Oh, don’t make me beg…”
The blacksmith’s chest began to rise slowly, trapped within his master arms, as he drew in a heavy, deliberate breath. Whatever was about to happen now, would come to him with great difficulty.
“Alright,” he replied, releasing the air gathered in his lungs.
“Excellent! Come on then!” the nobleman exclaimed cheerfully, gesturing toward the bed. Admittedly, he wasn’t proud of pressuring Henry into this, but he believed it would be worth it in the end.
He quickly shed the clothes unnecessary for bed, leaving only his undergarments and a half-opened shirt that boldly displayed a chest sculpted by martial training. Under normal circumstances, Henry would have found the sight immensely enticing — but, well… the circumstances of that night were anything but normal.
Having set aside the expensive velvets and silks, he took his blacksmith by the wrist, then pulled him along to the modest bed at the back of the room, allowing his heavy from toil and anguish body to sink onto his own as they lay down together, while Henry’s head rested on his chest.
Exactly as he had planned.
With one hand he held him closer, with the other stroked his beloved’s nape. And he began to breathe deeply, letting Henry listen to the beat of his heart.
A heart that now beats for him.
A heart that loved him so fiercely it could not bear to see him suffer.
A heart that was ready to carry every burden alongside him — if only Henry would allow it.
He listened to the blacksmith’s breathing. And although the sounds of revelry from downstairs and the stormy rain made it quite difficult, he could hear it slowly easing, gradually growing calmer.
Henry’s body — still heavy — likewise seemed to yield, slowly relaxing beneath Hans’s touch.
He let them remain for a while longer in their tender embrace, savouring their closeness. Yet once he gained a measure of confidence that his small ruse had worked, he asked uncertainly:
“Do you feel better?”
“Yes, better…” Henry replied calmly, conveniently forgetting that he had never actually declared feeling unwell.
“And would you…” Hans hesitated before asking the next question. He had already pressed him hard enough that day. “Would you like to finally tell me what’s troubling you?”
Henry’s muscles stiffened again, just as Hans had feared. Still, he didn’t stop stroking him gently or holding close. He wanted Henry to feel safe and loved. Therefore he promised himself that if Henry was not ready to speak tonight, the matter would rest.
After a moment however, he felt the blacksmith adjusting the position of his head on Hans’s chest, nestling even closer than before — something he welcomed wholeheartedly.
Then, Henry drew in another long breath.
“That night… there was a storm,” he finally murmured.
“That night — meaning…?” the nobleman asked, trying to piece together a larger picture from this thin remark.
“The night Istvan died,” he added quickly. Slowly, an invisible barrier that had kept him from confessing all his trauma to his beloved, seemed to give way.
Hans knew far less about that night at Trosky Castle than he would have liked. Mostly from Godwin — who was reluctant to go into details — and from overheard conversations between Žižka and Dry Devil, who much preferred to curse Otto von Bergow and King Sigismund instead.
Katherine avoided speaking with him about nearly anything, and Henry limited his accounts of those events to Istvan Toth’s fatal death and the recovery of his father’s sword.
So Hans had been forced to assemble the whole picture from miserable scraps of information — scraps that filled him with deep sorrow and helplessness.
“That was the night…” he hesitated again, afraid of reopening wounds that should perhaps remain sealed forever. In the end, he gathered his courage. “That was the night Istvan tortured you?”
Hans was aware of what his beloved had endured then, though everyone — Henry and Godwin foremost among them — had spared him the details. And he…
He did not want to know.
He did not want to think about it, to truly grasp it, to imagine his dearest Henry suffering under a torturer’s boot.
Yet he knew he had to — so that Henry would no longer carry it alone. No matter how painful that knowledge might prove, he was ready.
For Henry.
“That was the night they took you from me” Henry declared without a trace of doubt, lifting his head slightly and gazing at Hans with his piercing, dark-blue eyes.
It was so typical of him — placing Hans’s well-being far above his own, even when the situation demanded the opposite.
“Henry, nothing was threatening me that night,” he replied gently, wanting to steer the focus back to his beloved’s ordeal. For it was true: no matter how difficult that night had been for him, it was nothing compared to what Henry had endured. His status had shielded him from the worst.
“I… I know,” Henry admitted uncertainly. “But I still felt like I had failed you. I couldn’t protect you. Once again, I failed to protect those I love.”
His voice began to break. Hans wanted to comfort him, to assure him that he had done everything humanly possible to keep him safe — and that the young nobleman saw and appreciated it. But he sensed that for now it was better to remain silent and allow Henry to continue opening up. So he once more stroked the back of his neck, pouring as much tenderness into the gesture as he could.
“I barely remember the torture… I felt pain, but even more than that I felt hatred — hatred for that bastard Istvan, and my own helplessness. That was the worst part…”
Helplessness.
That above all else terrified Henry — an echo of the tragic memories from Skalitz. Of a boy who could only watch as an enemy army slaughtered those closest to him: family, friends, neighbors. People who had wronged no one, who had nothing to do with the great conflict of two kings.
Hans could only imagine how those feelings must have returned to Henry on that stormy night at Trosky Castle.
“Katerine freed us — you know that…” he continued, his voice quickening. “So I made it upstairs and finally got my hands on that maggot, reclaimed my father’s sword. I got my revenge…”
Suddenly he stopped. He pressed his head lightly against Hans’s chest again, listening to the beat of his heart, as if needing to feel his presence more strongly.
“I thought… I thought it would bring me peace, but I was wrong,” he admitted bitterly. “Istvan had a lot to say before he died. Mostly about what a fool I was for seeking revenge — how he and I were no different from each other…”
“Bullshit!” Hans protested, as to this moment listened tirelessly to his beloved’s confession. “Istvan Toth was a spineless leech! He lied, manipulated, and killed without batting an eye — he cared only about himself! You are nothing like him—”
“He cared only about himself… and Erik.”
Henry did not say it aloud — not yet — but he understood what Istvan might have meant when he had begged him to leave Erik alone. Many times afterward, Henry had wondered what he himself would be willing to do for Hans.
A great deal.
And how much it was, sometimes frightened him.
“Maybe… I don’t know,” he said. “But I do know that taking revenge on him did not give me peace. In a way, it’s even worse.”
Hans nodded, hoping that he would finally learn the full truth of what tormented his beloved.
“Istvan didn’t disappear. He’s in my head now — he haunts me in nightmares. He mocks my foolishness, my mistakes, my helplessness. Stormy nights are the worst…”
Suddenly, everything became clear.
Every time the sky filled with heavy clouds and lashed them with cascades of rain, Istvan returned. Perhaps only as a mare of the night — but for Henry, just as real and devastating as the living man who had inspired it.
And he had been facing it completely alone.
Every stormy night.
Hans felt a sudden surge of anger — at Istvan, at Markvart, at King Sigismund, at Erik, at the nameless Cumans, and at every other person who had ever hurt his beloved.
He also felt anger toward Henry himself, for not having told him anything all this time.
But he calmed quickly, then declared firmly:
“From now on, you have to tell me all thighs like that. I don’t want you to be alone with this. Whatever you’re going through, we will go through it together — you and I. I command it, as your Lord.”
Hearing this, Henry turned his astonished gaze upon him. Then, bracing his arms, he lifted himself and hovered over Hans, who still regarded him with the stern look of a commanding nobleman.
That expression softened the moment he felt the blacksmith’s rough, work-worn hand touch his face.
“Alright. I will,” Henry said, looking at his Lord.
If only Hans knew how much he meant to him…
Revenge had not brought him peace of mind.
Hans Capon had.
With his smile, his will to live, his thirst for adventure, his radiant positivity — even though he himself carried his own cross deep in his heart. Hans had given his existence new meaning, though it had taken going through starvation and near death experience for him to understand it that night in Suchdol.
Henry of Skalitz could face anything, so long as Hans Capon stood at his side.
With that thought, he placed one last gentle kiss on the nobleman’s forehead — a wordless thanks for his tireless care — then settled back onto his chest and fell peacefully asleep, listening to the sound of rain beyond the window.