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Snow had remade the land into something ethereal, as though the world had been washed of itself and left only light behind. Every branch bent beneath its white burden, and the ground lay smooth and unbroken, as though no man had ever been where they trod.
Hans stopped to breathe it in. The air burned his lungs and tasted clean.
Something struck the back of his hood with a dull thump, cold seeping instantly through the wool and into his neck.
“Oi!”
Henry stood a few paces away, already grinning, visor pushed up and snow clinging to the dark leather of his gloves. Another ball was forming in his hands, packed too neatly to be innocent.
“You were standing too still,” he said.
“Too still?” Hans cried. “Too still? I was taking in the scenery, you peasant!”
“Aye,” Henry said, tossing the ball between his hands with an ease that belied both the weight of his armour and his station. “So was I, until a glaring splotch of yellow wandered into my view.”
His grin widened.
“I thought covering it in more snow might fix it.”
He swung his arm back and sent the projectile flying—straight for Hans.
Hans ducked.
“You will regret this, Hal!” he shouted, and because he was already down, he scooped up a handful of snow. “You admitted I was the better marksman back at the Devil’s Den!”
“Because you cheated!”
Hans gasped in mock affront. “Mind your tongue, blacksmith’s boy! You insult a noble’s honour!”
“Well, now’s your time to defend it,” Henry laughed. “Prove me wrong, sir!”
A snowball exploding in his face did nothing to silence Henry’s mirth; instead, it pealed through the naked forest, bright and unguarded.
Between them, Mutt barreled into the snow, tail wagging furiously as his attention fixed on the snowball in Hans’ hand as though it were a stick. Laughing, Hans hurled it at Henry—and Mutt yapped in delight, leaping after it, jaws snapping on empty air as it struck Henry’s shoulder instead.
Snow soaked through Hans’ gloves and crept down his sleeves, cold and biting—and still, he laughed.
❆
“I will say,” Henry mused, setting his scabbard with his sword against a nearby trunk, “camping in the snow is not… how I expected today to end.”
He hummed, tugging his helmet free and the coif down, hair damp against his brow despite the cold.
“But I suppose it’s not all bad. Good for sharing body heat.”
He tossed Hans a shameless grin, which Hans met with the most unimpressed expression he could muster with the flutter of interest in his groin.
“We are absolutely not stripping to our braies in this weather, Henry. Think less about your cock and more about getting a fire started before we begin to lose fingers.”
“Hmm.” Henry was still smiling. He swept low in a flourishing bow, graceful and unmistakably mocking. “Anything for you, my lord.”
Hans waged a brief and vicious war against a smile—and very nearly lost. At last, with all the gravitas he could summon, he declared, “My squire spends his days rubbing elbows with the local nobility, yet forgoes his manners the moment he speaks to his lord. I will have you strung and quartered!”
“No, you won’t,” said Henry, insolent and fond all in one.
Hans adored the yokel.
“Fire first,” he said, gesturing around them. “Then you may argue your case for why I should spare you the pillory.”
“Oh,” said Henry lightly, cocking his head. His eyes dragged slowly down Hans’ body. It did ignite a fire, but not anywhere that would keep Hans’ extremities from frostbite. “I can be… quite persuasive, when I set my mind to it.”
Then, rumbling, “My lord.”
“The fire, Hal!”
God’s bones, Hans thought as Henry broke into another burst of laughter and finally turned to sorting firewood. Not even the cold could kill Henry’s good mood.
Hans’ gaze drifted unbidden toward the horizon—and what lay beyond it.
Adventure traded for duty, freedom for discretion.
Rattay. Marriage.
Everything they had buried during these months on the road—now was the time to dig it back up, heavier for how much had unfurled between him and Henry.
It had been perfect, this time with Henry, days unfolding at their own pace. The road gave them laughter, the evenings ease, the nights a closeness that deepened without being named. Habits, silences, and bodies alike were charted into memory, and with each mile, each shared cup, familiarity softened every edge.
But the future loomed ahead, uncertain and solemn—and when the call home arrived in the form of a rider straight from Rattay, they had shared a sober look.
Hans had lain awake many nights after, absently brushing unruly strands of hair from Henry’s forehead, caressing his brow—so often drawn tight by nightmares—and he had imagined the two of them packing up and leaving it all behind. Somewhere untouched by duty.
Somewhere it could not tear them apart.
Henry saw easily through Hans’ smiles and laughter when such fears clogged his throat and made him feel as though he were choking on them. He had taken to pressing kisses and quiet promises into Hans’ skin like sacred inscriptions, until the fears melted away beneath his warmth.
“We knew it was coming,” Henry had murmured a mere few days ago, gently knocking their heads together as they lay close in bed in some roadside inn. “This marriage will be a new adventure, but it doesn’t mean ours will end. Besides, I’ve grown quite skilled at sneaking around unnoticed.”
“You deserve more than what I can give,” Hans had said, the words rough, dragged from somewhere deep inside him. “Closed doors and secrecy—those are romances from tales. Burning bright, but fast.”
“You believe what we have will be like that?”
Henry’s tone had been teasing, but Hans hadn’t wanted to risk doubt taking root after.
“No,” he said firmly, gripping Henry’s chin and tilting his face up to steal a kiss at the corner of his mouth. “No. I mean…”
He faltered, scouring his extensive vocabulary for the right words and still coming up short. This fondness between them was unfamiliar to him in ways lust had never been. Lust he understood; they both did. But this—this had settled deeper, grown quieter and more insistent, something that did not fade when the heat passed.
What they had was not fleeting. It meant to last.
“I wish I could give you everything of me,” he murmured at last. “But parts of me will always belong to Rattay. To duty. It does not seem fair that I should live in a castle with a wife and children, while you wait for me in the dark.”
Henry shushed him.
“Are all nobles this gloomy?” he mused, a soft smile curling his lips. “I will live in the light with you, Hans. By your side—whatever you would have me do. Captain, castellan, bodyguard… I will be content. Happy.”
Hans opened his mouth, brows furrowed, but Henry covered it with a hand.
“But,” he added gently. “If my feelings change—if I start wanting something else from life—then we will talk. Trust me to make these choices myself.”
He hesitated.
“And… should you ever come to resent me for the secrets you must keep from your wife—”
“I won’t,” said Hans beneath Henry’s hand. He caught Henry’s wrist and freed his mouth to repeat it, never more certain about anything, “I won’t.”
Henry smiled faintly. “Circumstances change—often beyond our control. I would know.”
A sadness glossed his eyes, gone again before Hans could blink.
“We don’t know what will happen,” Henry went on quietly. “We don’t know the sort of woman your wife will be. Perhaps you will grow fond of her. Perhaps you won’t. In five years, I will still care for you—but I might look upon your children and yearn for my own.”
He shrugged, soft and unbothered, as if speaking of the weather.
“So rather than fret over the future, let’s do as we have done. One day at a time. After all—how much have we already endured together?”
Shaking the memory off, Hans glanced toward Henry. He was crouched by a pile of branches and dried herbs—likely from his saddlebags—over a patch of ground cleared of snow. Smoke rose lazily where embers had caught on kindling.
Henry had done good work whilst Hans had been lost to his thoughts.
Hans squared his shoulders and went to the horses. He shrugged his winter cloak from his shoulders and shook the snow from it, fingers already numb. He slung it over Caballus’ saddle and gathered the blankets from his bags, folding and refolding them until they might serve as bedding—or at least as a barrier between skin and frozen ground.
Henry might fare well enough in the cold; Hans decidedly did not.
He found himself longing for the hearth of some roadside inn they might have been warming themselves before by now, had the snow not turned the roads white and treacherous. Fog came with the dimming of the day, blurring the forest floor at his feet.
Still—they would make do. They had not been in any great hurry to reach Rattay to begin with, and the snow was as good an excuse as any to continue as they had: taking the longer roads, dallying at inns, stretching the journey thin for as long as it would allow.
Though the accursed cold might just take off Hans’ fingers at this point.
He trudged through the snow to dump the blankets behind Henry. The fire was coming along well, a few logs now joining the pile of kindling and flames licking greedily at them. The smoke was thicker and darker now from the damp wood; Henry shifted to avoid sitting downwind of it.
He insisted it was different from forge smoke. Hans insisted he was a fool.
The tips of Henry’s ears were red with cold. Hans breathed warmth into his hands and cupped them, as though that might be enough.
Henry chuckled.
“Warming my ears is certainly a step up from listening to your complaints about the cold—and the lack of a fire.”
“You have the fire well in hand,” Hans said easily, pinching one ear. “I’m feeling charitable.”
“Of course, sir.”
Hans patted the top of his head before returning to the horses. This time, he went straight for Pebbles’ saddlebags, knowing the food Henry had packed that morning. He offered the horses handfuls of oats and barley, then split the bruised apple he had scrounged from the bottom of a bag between them.
He saved the cheese and plain bread for himself and Henry.
The forest lay hushed around them, broken only by the steady crackle of burning wood. The light was fading as dusk settled, but there was still time to make camp before true darkness fell.
Mutt nosed at a broken-off branch, tail thumping once against the snow before he circled back to Henry’s side, content to sit where the warmth would reach him.
Hans went to join them, but paused to look past Henry, drawn once more to the winter forest in all its untouched glory—glittering faintly beneath the setting sun.
Henry lifted his head, catching his eyes and smiling knowingly.
Mutt’s tail stilled.
His ears pricked, head lifting from his paws as he stared into the trees.
Something shifted in Henry’s expression—tenderness, then confusion, then horror—all within the span of a single breath before he was up.
Hans never got the chance to turn; never saw what had drawn them both.
He landed hard in the snow before he realised Henry had shoved him aside. The air left his lungs in a rush; white filled his vision, close enough to touch. Henry’s sword lay toppled near his hand.
Mutt barked.
He scrambled onto his back, a sharp demand for explanation already forming—
Only to see a knight in white armour—not a knight, his mind screamed, not a knight—wrench his sword free from beneath Henry’s arm and, planting a foot on Henry’s thigh, kick him down into the snow.
Hans froze as surely as the forest around them.
Blood slicked the blade. It fell from the tip in heavy drops, staining the snow with small, obscene roses.
Erik—his armour unmistakable, his fury more so—tightened his grip and glanced toward Hans, his expression warped into something inhuman.
On the ground, Henry laughed.
But he did not get up.
Why did he not get up?
“Toth’s mongrel,” Henry wheezed. “Still chasing his ghost for a pat on the head?”
Erik’s gaze snapped back to Henry, his chest heaving beneath the armour.
“You dare—”
“You should have heard him,” Henry said, sneering, “when I threw him from the window.”
His eyes flicked to Hans, his mouth shaping a soundless word as pain twisted his face.
Run.
Then he looked away.
“How—”
He dragged in a breath, eyes squeezing shut before snapping open again, fixing on Erik after a beat too long.
“How much of him was left on those rocks to bury?”
Erik roared.
The sword flashed as he raised it, intent etched into every line of his body, every curse he spat—
Hans had unsheathed Henry’s sword before his mind could catch up with his body, and by then he was already moving, the blade driving itself between Henry and Erik’s strike.
Steel met steel with a sound that cleaved the quiet of the forest. Hans grunted under Erik’s weight, desperation guiding his hand where reason could not—but it was desperation, too, that gave him the strength to force Erik back with a hard shove.
He spared Henry a single glance—knitted brows, mouth drawn tight—before stepping past him, sword raised, his focus narrowing until there was only Erik.
Erik laughed. The sound was wrong, animal, torn loose from the trees themselves.
“Hans,” Henry groaned behind him, the word strained and wet.
Hans did not turn.
Erik was still laughing.
“Oh,” he cried, “your pretty bird would rather stand his ground and lose his wings than take flight. I’ll tear out his heart while you watch, you cur—then I’ll feed it to you and leave you for the wolves.”
“Hans—”
“Go ahead and try,” Hans said quietly.
Erik’s grin widened.
Then he charged.
Hans gave his body over to instinct, tuning everything out but Erik in front of him.
Strike after strike—Erik was incessant, incensed, brutal, driving him back faster than Hans could answer. A vicious swing bit into the padding at his arm; red welled at once from the cut.
Erik laughed and pressed on, overconfident now, leaving openings Hans tried to take—each blow glancing uselessly off plate.
Erik arced his sword high. Hans stumbled back to save his throat, his heel skidding in the snow—
Heat at his back.
He did not think. He stooped, his hand closing around a log straight from the fire, and hurled it.
Erik flinched, arm snapping up as the log flew past him—
And Mutt pounced.
Teeth sank into Erik’s sword arm with a snarl, the impact wrenching his swing wide. Erik shouted, stumbling as the dog’s weight dragged him off balance. He kicked out blindly, cursing, but Mutt held fast.
Hans struck.
He drove into Erik while the man was still reeling, shoulder slamming into breastplate, steel biting where it could. Erik went down hard, Mutt darting off with a yap as Hans wrested the sword from his grasp.
Erik staggered up again, still grinning, something wild burning in his eyes.
He lunged—
Hans rammed him back, blade punching beneath the rim of his helm.
Erik faltered, then dropped to his knees. His hands clawed at the snow as he bent forward, laughter collapsing into a wet, gurgling rasp.
“You… wretch…”
Hans kicked him onto his back and, without ceremony, drove the sword through his neck, twisting until there was no doubt the bastard would not rise again.
He wrenched the blade free, heart hammering—
Henry.
Mutt was there first, whining and circling Henry’s body in frantic half-steps. Hans was with them in moments, the sword slipping from his grip as he dropped to his knees at Henry’s side.
“Henry,” he whispered, terror clawing at him when Henry did not stir.
He touched Henry’s jaw.
Then, louder: “Henry.”
Henry’s eyes fluttered open.
Hans breathed a prayer as Henry blinked, his gaze drifting to the discarded sword.
With something sharp lodging in his chest, Hans watched him reach for it, fingers closing loosely, as though he still believed he had to protect them.
“Henry—hey,” he whispered, because anything louder felt like sacrilege. He tilted Henry’s face toward him, trying to catch his eyes while ignoring the red prints his fingers left behind on his cheek. “Henry. Focus.”
Henry met his gaze—held it for a breath, then sagged in relief.
“Hans…”
Blood—bright crimson—marred the pristine white of the snow beneath them. Hans’ breath hitched as he drew Henry closer, propping his upper body against his leg.
“Stay with me,” he said, stiff fingers already working at the fastenings of Henry’s cuirass. “Do not drift off again. You hear me?”
Henry murmured something unintelligible, eyes blinking open again, though they remained frighteningly distant.
Hans’ fingers were covered in Henry’s blood by the time he freed him of the cuirass. The groan torn from him as Hans shifted his weight was like a blade to the ribs—but there was no other way to get the cuirass off.
“Ssh,” Hans breathed, staring at the mail soaked dark where Erik’s blade had struck—too close to the armpit.
“Looks worse than it is,” Henry muttered.
Hans swallowed hard. “Stop talking, you—”
The words caught. He forced them down.
“Don’t you dare die on me,” he said, gripping Henry’s jaw and forcing his gaze up. “You hear me? You fucking peasant.”
Henry mumbled.
“What?”
“Marigold. Chamomile.” A careful breath. “Saddlebags. Bandages.”
“Right,” Hans said, though leaving him felt like a mistake. “Right. Don’t—I’ll be back.”
Pebbles shifted beneath his hands, skittish, sensing the tension. Hans tried to soothe her, but his voice broke, so he gave up and fumbled blindly through the bags.
He was back at Henry’s side in moments, bottles clutched tight in one hand, bandages in the other.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, before lifting Henry just enough to work the mail free.
Henry made no sound this time, teeth clenched hard.
Hans was no physician, but—there was too much blood. And they were in some godforsaken forest in winter, night coming on fast.
He drew Henry closer.
“Where’s the nearest inn?”
“Not…”
“Henry.”
Henry groaned as Hans bound the wound tight.
“Not close. Not enough time.”
Hans shut his eyes.
No. Not here. Not now. Not after everything.
Talmberg.
It was hours away. The roads were slippery; perilous. Henry might die in his arms before they reached the gates—but staying meant the night would take him for certain.
“Drink,” Hans said, uncorking the first bottle and lifting it to Henry’s mouth. “Please.”
Henry swallowed both decoctions with barely a spill. He coughed after, but they stayed down.
They would not save him. Not without a physician.
But, God willing, they would buy time.
Enough for Hans to ride for Talmberg as hard as Cabullus and the road would allow.
Hans moved at once. Fingers stiff with blood and cold fought straps and buckles, steel discarded into the snow without ceremony as he tore the armour free.
Armour could be replaced.
He stripped Henry down to gambeson and hose, his chest tightening as Henry shuddered in the open air. Time slipped between his fingers like water. Swearing under his breath, Hans left him only long enough to gather the blankets, unfasten the horses, and secure his cloak.
He did not look back at Erik.
Getting Henry onto Cabullus was no easy task, but at least the weight of armour no longer dragged him down. Henry stayed conscious through it, jaw clenched, breath rough as he helped where he could.
Hans mounted behind him and looped a rope around Henry’s chest, then around himself, binding them together. Henry’s cloak followed, wrapped tight, then the blankets, layered until there was nothing left to give but warmth and will.
It would have to be enough.
“Hold on, Henry,” Hans said into his hair. “Just hold on. It won’t be long.”
Henry gave a faint, rasping laugh, the sound warm against Hans’ neck despite the pain.
“Aye,” he said.
Hans locked an arm around Henry’s chest, gripping the reins with the other, and urged Caballus forward—first to a walk, then a canter, impatience warring with sense. The snow was not too deep; better to push on now, while he still had light enough to glimpse the road.
Pebbles fell in behind them without needing to be called; Mutt, too. Hans breathed out in relief.
“My armour…”
“I will send for the finest armoursmith in all of Bohemia when we reach Rattay,” Hans said. “He will forge you anything you wish.”
Henry hummed.
“Something suitable,” he said, voice thin, “for all the castles you promised me.”
A brittle laugh broke free of Hans before he could stop it. “Yes. All the castles. Why stop at one? We’ll have three sets made.”
Henry huffed, the sound small but pleased, and it warmed Hans more surely than any hearth ever could.
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.
Hans did not look back.
“Do not think this excuses your insult to my honour,” he said. “We will have another archery contest—and this time, no drunkards to decide the victor.”
“They were laughing at me,” Henry muttered.
“As they should have,” Hans replied loftily.
Henry’s breath ghosted warm against his throat—and then his weight sagged.
Hans tightened his hold at once.
Darkness crept in. The horse slipped once on the frozen road; Hans felt it like a punch to the gut and reined him in, teeth grinding. He could not drive Caballus harder—not like this.
Mutt kept pace in the ruts of the road, a dark shape darting in and out of moonlight.
“Henry,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “Tell me about blacksmithing.”
A pause. Then, faintly: “Why?”
“Because I’ve heard you hum while you work,” Hans said. “I want to know why.”
“Rhythm,” Henry answered at last. “To know when… to strike.”
The moon rose, pale and cold, casting silver upon the snow. Henry answered when Hans prompted him, slowly and carefully, as though each word cost him something.
The silences lengthened as the darkness wrapped tighter.
Hans did not listen to what he said. He listened to the cadence instead—the thinning volume, the strain that dragged at the ends of his sentences.
Wind whipped past him like knives. Henry was no longer shivering; he slipped, and Hans hauled him closer, each drag of breath past Henry’s lips a benediction.
“Stay with me,” Hans murmured, lips near Henry’s ear. He gripped the reins so tightly his hand ached, and said it again, and again, filling the night with his voice when silence dragged too long for comfort.
Henry breathed—warm, shallow, damp against his skin. Then it stuttered.
“Henry.”
A sound. Not quite a word. Enough.
He prayed his sense of direction had not been lost to the snow. Talmberg could not be far; surely he had ridden for hours.
Surely Henry would not die—not after he had carried him this far.
Then—specks of light in the distance. Walls rising from the dark. A tower crowned in snow.
“I’ve got you,” Hans whispered as Henry stirred against him. “Hold on. Nearly there.”
Sense be damned. He drove Cabullus harder for the final stretch, clutching Henry tight as the horse forged a path through the snow. Mutt bolted ahead, barking—an alarm before Hans could raise his voice.
Torches flared along the rampart. Shouts followed.
“Open the gates!” Hans cried. “I am Lord Hans Capon of Pirkstein! Please—I need your aid!”
Movement—voices overlapping—then the groan of iron as the portcullis rose. Hans ducked instinctively as Cabullus passed beneath it, the horse already slowing inside the outer bailey.
“My lord Capon,” one of the guards said, bowing.
God’s mercy, Hans thought, that he was somewhere he did not need to explain himself.
“Your physician,” he demanded—and as if summoned by the word alone, Henry groaned against him. “My man is wounded. He needs help.”
They were taken into the inner bailey. A man in hastily donned clothes emerged from an open door, his gaze fixing immediately on Hans—on Henry.
“Inside,” he said. “Now.”
Hans did not realise his hands were shaking until they reached for Henry. Instinct made him tighten his hold, but a firm grip on his arm and Sir Divish’s firm, “Let go, Sir Hans,” broke it.
“Hans,” Henry mumbled, eyes searching even as he sagged into the guards’ grasp.
“I’m here,” Hans said—and Henry found him, sighed—
Then his eyes rolled back. His body went slack, caught only because the guards were ready for him.
“Henry!”
“Let the physician work,” Sir Divish said.
Hans had not seen him arrive—nor Lady Stephanie, one hand braced at her swollen belly, her mouth drawn tight as orders were barked and Henry was carried away.
Away.
Hans staggered until stone met his back. Bile burned at the back of his throat, but he forced it down—forced everything down, though the shaking had spread from his hands to his arms, his chest, his legs.
Mutt sat by the door Henry had vanished through, whining softly.
“Lord Capon.”
Lady Stephanie’s touch at his cheek pulled his gaze to hers.
“Oh, poor lad,” she murmured. “You must be freezing.”
Hans opened his mouth—but no words came. He looked back to the door instead.
Henry had to survive. If he did not—
No. He would not think it. Would not invite the devil in by naming it. God’s mercy, warmth, and a physician—that was what Henry needed.
And yet—
Hans looked down at himself.
His golden pourpoint was mottled dark with rusted red. Beneath his fingers, the blood had crusted stiff. It clung to his skin, to his palms.
To every part of him Henry had touched.
His legs gave out all at once. He dropped to his knees, dimly aware of Lady Stephanie’s startled cry.
A shadow fell across him. She stood bent toward him now, worry etched deep around her eyes.
“Lord Capon,” she said gently. “You are injured. The physician—”
“The physician will not touch me,” Hans rasped, “until he has assured me of Henry’s survival.”
“Let someone tend to you,” she insisted. “Those burns need treatment.”
Burns?
Ah. The log.
Hans looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers—and winced when he found he could scarcely close them around his palm. Blisters had risen angry and pale beneath the blood.
The pain crept in at last: sharp stinging from the burns, a deep ache in his arm. His fingers were numb, but the rest of him seemed to remember itself all at once, every hurt arriving together.
His teeth began to chatter.
God, it was cold.
❆
He was ushered inside and seated before the hearth, warmth slow to drive the chill from his weary body despite the furs and blankets piled atop him. His hand was soaked in spirits, then wrapped in bandages; his arm received the same treatment.
A bowl of steaming broth was pushed into his grasp and left there until he drank it.
After, he could not recall the taste—just the comfort.
“Any news?” he whispered, turning to the two who remained with him: Sir Divish and Lady Stephanie.
Sir Divish shook his head. “It will take some time, I’m afraid—but the physician is hopeful.”
Hans nodded, numb, and turned his gaze back to the fire.
Somehow, he slept.
❆
Morning came in pale streaks across the floor.
Hans woke with his heart already racing, the room too quiet, the bed beside him untouched.
He sat up, listening—counting footsteps, voices, the scrape of boots in the corridor—until the waiting hollowed him out.
Henry stirred in bed as Hans stepped inside the room he had been left to recuperate in. Disoriented—tired—Henry blinked until his gaze focused on Hans. Then he smiled.
It was a balm to Hans’ soul.
When Henry’s hand reached for him, he crossed to his side at once and took it between his own.
“I’ll live,” Henry murmured.
Hans exhaled, the sound shuddering out of him.
Henry frowned.
“Why is your hand bandaged?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Hans lightly. “How are you faring?”
Henry squinted at him, then—after a visible struggle—let it go. Hans had little doubt he would pester him about it later.
Later. Thank God.
“Sore,” Henry said, shifting his shoulder and grimacing, as though Hans had demanded proof.
The stupid fool. Pheasant-brained yokel. Soil-tiller and turnip-picker.
Hans dropped to his knees in relief.
“Please,” he said, “can we put an end to this habit of nearly getting you killed? My constitution cannot endure it.”
Henry pursed his mouth. “Erik—”
“—is dead,” Hans finished, stern and cool.
Henry arched a brow, then shrugged—
“Oh, fuck,” he groaned, lifting his other hand to clutch his shoulder.
“Oaf,” Hans said. “Do not step between me and a blade ever again.”
“I did not expect to get hit,” Henry groused. “I just—I saw something rising behind you. My sword was nearby. I thought—if I could reach you first, then…”
He made no mention of Hans’ demand.
Hans did not press it.
He swore instead to be less careless, so Henry would never again have reason to put himself in harm’s way for him.
“Thank you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Henry’s knuckles and relishing the flustered smile it earned him. “For saving me yet again. For holding on. For not dying on me.”
“Always,” Henry said quietly.
“Always,” Hans echoed.
Then he sneezed.
“Oh, no,” Henry said lightly. “It seems we both require bed rest. Rattay will have to wait a little longer.”
“A tragedy,” Hans replied, dry as sun-scorched grass. “Whatever shall we do?”
Henry hummed, pleased. “Lock the door,” he said.
Hans smiled.
“Then we rest.”