Chapter Text
Hans knew this was a miserable day long before the battle started.
He woke before dawn. The air was damp, and the forest around Zivohost was dark, but not quiet. It was the restless dark of late autumn where even the birds seemed uneasy.
Hans sat on a fallen log, pulling on his boots, and already felt the headache behind his eyes. He knew this day would be bad. He didn’t know how. But he knew.
After all… over the last two years since Henry no day could ever count as a really good one… Oh, Henry...
Hans tightened the straps on his cuirass with more force than necessary. The leather was stiff with old sweat and rain. Everything smelled of damp wool, horse, and fear from the younger men.
He hated forest battles. He hated uneven ground. He hated the way the fog swallowed sound. He hated the way the Hussites fought. He had enough of school from Zizka to understand just how screwed they were against him.
Oh well. Just today. For the last time. And then…
Hans let the thought trail off before it could take shape. Better not to think about it too closely. Not here, not now, with the battle still needing to be fought and the men shifting nervously behind him.
He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the forest breathe. One could almost imagine a different life in sounds like these. A quieter one. A braver one, perhaps.
One of those things proper lords never do, he told himself with a humorless huff. But then… better late than never.
He opened his eyes again. The fog hadn’t lifted.
The horns finally came, thin and uncertain in the fog, more warning than command. Hans rose with the rest, the forest floor sucking at his boots as he moved to take his place among the men. No grand lines today, the terrain wouldn’t allow it. The hillside was broken by thickets, gullies, and low stone walls half-swallowed by moss. Formations dissolved the moment they were formed.
The first clash didn’t come as a charge but as a shiver through the undergrowth: the snap of a branch, the hiss of something cutting the air, a stone or bolt striking a shield with a dull, wet thud. Someone cursed. Someone else screamed. The younger soldiers tightened their grips on spears already slick with mist.
Hans pushed forward, barking orders that vanished into the fog as soon as they left his mouth. The ground sloped treacherously, forcing the men into uneven clusters.
A volley of projectiles rattled through the trees, thrown or slung from angles no one could see. Hussite skirmishers.
“Take cover!”
Hans raised his shield just in time to deflect a stone that would have cracked his jaw. The impact numbed his arm to the elbow.
“Forward!” he shouted, though he wasn’t sure anyone heard him. Men stumbled over roots and each other, trying to keep formation on ground that refused to cooperate.
The real fighting began, close and brutal. A knot of Hussites burst from the brush with flails and axes, striking before Hans’s men could properly brace. Hans shoved himself into the thick of it, steel meeting wood and iron in frantic, ugly blows. He felt the jolt of impact travel up his arm as he parried, countered, drove a man back with the rim of his shield.
Around him, the battle no more than a series of violent collisions flaring and fading in the fog, men fighting in twos and threes, losing sight of their own comrades within a dozen steps.
No banners, no clean lines, no predictable rhythm. Just chaos, cunning, and the forest itself fighting on the Hussites’ side.
Hanush would despise this, Hans thought as he struck down his opponent and quickly turned around and ran towards a group of his men cornered in disadvantage.
Too late.
Suddenly, Hans found himself standing against three armed Hussites alone. One of them was just pulling a sword free of a fallen man bearing the crest of the lords of Leipa.
They all looked up at once.
Hans gritted his teeth, raised his blade, ready to sell his skin dearly.
But…
“Hans?” one of the men whispered and raised the visor of his helmet. “What are you-”
“What am I?” Hans let out a strangled question with what felt like the last breath in his lungs. “Henry – what the fuck?”
Henry stared back at him with the same stunned, hollow disbelief.
“Hans…”
Hans’s heart slammed against his ribs. A wave of anger, relief, grief, fear, all of it crashed through him so violently he couldn’t name a single part of it. His throat tightened. His vision blurred at the edges. His knees nearly buckled.
One heartbeat they were staring at each other, frozen in that impossible pocket of stillness. Then Henry’s eyes widened.
“Hans!”
Henry lunged, slamming into him with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. Hans hit the mud hard and for a moment he couldn’t tell up from down. There was only ringing in his ears.
At the same time, he heard a wet, disgusting sound, like a thud of metal against flesh, though no explosion of pain on his own body.
“What-”
Hans blinked, dazed, his hands slipping in the mud. There was a movement above him, a large bulky shadow with a heavy pointed flail getting ready for an easy prey. Hans grabbed his sword and swung upward in a desperate, clumsy arc. The blade caught the attacker under the arm, where the armor gapped and Hans drove it deeper, forcing the man down into the mud.
What the…
Hans quickly scrambled back on his feet and looked around in utter confusion.
Henry was on his knees behind him, hunched forward, one hand pressed to his side. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. The flail’s blow had caught him full on the ribs, Hans could see the dent in the armor, the way Henry’s whole body curled around the pain.
“What the hell, Hal!” Hans shrieked and rushed to support him so he wouldn’t collapse face first into the mud. “You lost the job taking the blows for me a long time ago, remember, you fucking idiot!”
“Old habits,” Henry hissed breathlessly, clutching his side. “Go. More coming. Run.”
“Yes, more of ours too,” Hans countered as he slid himself under Henry’s arm trying to push him upright. “Get up, hear me, you useless piece of livestock, get the fuck up!”
Henry sagged against him, the weight of him sudden and alarming. Hans felt it immediately — the way Henry’s legs buckled, the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers dug into Hans’s sleeve as if holding himself together by sheer will.
“Up,” Hans growled, trying to haul him upright. “Up, damn you.”
Henry tried. Hans felt the effort, the sharp intake of breath that turned into a stifled groan.
“Hans,” Henry whispered, “you shouldn’t… I can’t...”
“Shut up,” Hans snapped, because he felt anything gentler would shatter something hard and fragile inside him. “Save your breath for walking.”
Somewhere close, steel clattered. Someone barreled past them, fleeing or charging, Hans couldn’t tell. The ground shook with the uneven rhythm of boots and hooves on mud.
Henry’s head jerked toward the sound. “Go,” he rasped again. “Leave me. I’ll slow you—”
“Save the speech, it’s way too late and too early.” Hans tightened his grip under Henry’s arm, dragging him upright with a strength he didn’t know he still had. “You’re coming with me, Hal. I’m not dying for you and I’m not letting you die for me. Not while I’m still mad at you.”
Hans hitched Henry’s arm higher over his shoulders and staggered backward, boots sliding in the churned mud. Henry tried to help, tried to put weight on his legs, but they buckled again and Hans had to tighten his grip to keep them both upright.
“Don’t—” Henry gasped, breath catching on the pain. “Hans, don’t. You’ll get yourself—”
“Already did,” Hans muttered, dragging him another step. “Now shut up and walk.”
They moved in a miserable, dragging half-stumble. Hans was hauling most of Henry’s weight as they pushed deeper into the trees. The sounds of battle faded unevenly in ragged bursts swallowed by the fog. The forest made it impossible to tell how far anything was.
Hans forced himself to keep moving.
The terrain grew harsher the farther they went. The gentle forest floor gave way to broken limestone, jagged outcrops jutting like ribs from the hillside. Low thorny shrubs clawed at their legs. The slope steepened, forcing Hans to brace himself with each step so Henry wouldn’t topple forward.
“Watch it,” Hans muttered, though Henry was barely conscious enough to hear. “Ground’s turning to shit.”
Henry’s breath hitched as his boot caught on a stone. Hans tightened his grip, pulling him back against his shoulder.
“Easy. Easy, damn you.”
They skirted a shallow ravine, its sides slick with moss and loose gravel. Hans tested the edge with his foot and it crumbled instantly. No going down there. He angled them uphill instead, toward the darker shapes of larger rocks.
“Stay awake, Hal.” Henry’s head lolled for a moment, and Hans shook him sharply. “If you pass out, I swear to God I’ll drop you right here.”
“You won’t,” Henry whispered, voice thin as thread.
“Try me.”
A loose stone rolled under his boot. Hans lurched, nearly losing them both. He slammed his shoulder into the rock to steady them.
“Fuck—” He sucked in a breath. “All right. All right. We’re fine.”
They weren’t.
Hans stood for a split second thinking, before he laid Henry softly against the stone.
“What-”
“Steady…,” Hans whispered and started to undo his gauntlets. Then his shoulder pads, then cuirass, tossing them all just down into the ravine. “Here,” he muttered once the last piece of armour was gone. “Whoever designed these probably haven’t considered the wearer would have to wear all this and carry an ox’s worth of a hussite uphill in the mud. What did they even feed you, I swear.”
“Your armour…,” Henry mumbled weakly.
“Fuck armour. Someone had to go in the ditch so be grateful it wasn’t you.”
“Where are we-”
“Don’t worry. Just lean yourself on me, alright?”
They set off again.
Hans forced himself to look around, searching for familiar sights. Finally, he realized he knew this slope. Knew the crooked line of limestone ridges above it.
“It’s here,” he whispered. “The cave, just a little longer.”
Henry made a faint sound, something among a breath, a laugh, or a groan. Hard to tell.
The path narrowed between two boulders, the stone slick with moss. Hans squeezed them through sideways, Henry’s weight nearly knocking them both off balance.
The cave mouth was small, but deep enough to give shelter.
“See?” Hans panted. “Told you.”
Henry didn’t respond. Hans tightened his grip, dragging him the last few steps toward the dark.
The cave wasn’t large, barely big enough for two men to stand without brushing the ceiling. But it was dry, and hidden, and right now that was enough. The air inside felt colder, but strangely still, as if they entered a world that had nothing to do with the chaos outside.
Hans eased Henry’s back against the wall. Henry’s head lolled sideways, eyes half-closed, breath shallow and uneven.
“Hal…,” Hans muttered urgently as he crouched in front of him. “Please, how are you?”
Henry opened his eyes a bit more, meeting Hans’s, and his lips turned into a smile.
“Better now,” he whispered. “I’ll be fine. But you… you need to go. They’ll be looking for you.”
“Maybe. Let’s get you out of that mail,” Hans avoided a direct answer and reached out to start with the straps. “I’ll have a look at that little nick of yours and we get you warm and comfortable. There are blankets at the back of the cave, we’ll wrap you up.”
“Why are blankets-”
“Don’t worry about it,” Hans cut him off almost too quickly, fingers already working at the buckles. “Now, here, can you move your arm a bit-”
It was a slow, agonising process. The mail was soaked with blood and mud, heavy, and Henry’s breath hitched every time Hans shifted it.
“Sorry,” Hans murmured, though he didn’t slow. “I know. I know. Just a bit more. Can you lift that other arm?”
“N- no…, can’t...”
The movement sent a sharp tremor through him. His fingers curled into Hans’s sleeve, knuckles white.
“Alright,” Hans bit his lip, nodding. “That’s alright.”
He eased the mail shirt up and over Henry’s shoulder. The moment the weight lifted, Henry sucked in a sharp, wet breath and something inside him made an ugly, quiet crack.
“Hans-”
“Henry?” Hans quickly reached forward to keep him steady. “Talk to me—”
The gambeson was already darkening on one side, the padding stiff with swelling. Hans pushed the fabric aside, and Henry’s breath broke into a ragged gasp. His hand flew to his ribs, fingers clawing at nothing.
“Stop—” Henry managed, voice thin and strangled. “Hans—don’t—”
Hans froze. He’d seen this before — armour masking the worst of a blow, holding broken bone in place until it came off.
Henry’s chest moved unevenly, the whole body trembling, a section of ribs dipping inward when it should rise. A bruise spread across his side, deep purple at the centre, fading to sickly yellow at the edges.
“Christ,” Hans whispered. “Hal… this is bad.“
Henry blinked once, slowly, as if the world were sliding out of focus. His fingers loosened from Hans’s sleeve.
“Hey! Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, don’t- here, just,” Hans quickly guided Henry’s limp upper half on the ground to lie straight, “come on, look at me, look at me!”
Henry’s eyes fluttered, then rolled half-closed. His breath came shallow, the left side of his chest barely rising at all.
“Damn it,” Hans breathed. “Alright, I… I’ll try to bind it a bit, alright? Hold it together. It’ll be well, gonna be fine, I promise.”
He stripped off his doublet with shaking hands, then dragged his tunic over his head. The cold air hit his skin. He tore the garment open at the seams, ripping it into a wide, long band of linen.
The sound made Henry stir, eyes fluttering open for a moment.
“Hans…?” he mumbled, unfocused.
“I’m here,” Hans said quickly, already folding the cloth. “You just fainted. It’s alright. Just breathe.”
He slid one hand behind Henry’s back to thread the linen underneath. Henry cried out weakly at that movement.
“Sorry,” Hans whispered. “I know. I know.”
He did his best to ease the cloth around Henry’s chest without shifting him more than necessary. The first touch of binding pressure made Henry flinch violently.
“Stop—” Henry gasped, a soft cry escaping before he could stop it. “Hans—please—”
“I have to,” Hans didn’t slow. “If I don’t bind it, the ribs will keep moving. I’m sorry.”
Henry’s eyes squeezed shut, breath trembling. “Feels… worse…”
“I know. Just a little more. You can do it.”
He tightened the linen wide and firm around Henry’s chest, pulling it snug enough to hold the broken bones still. Henry’s breath hitched again, but the trembling eased once the binding settled into place.
“There,” Hans exhaled. “That’s it. That’s better.”
Then he turned around and scrambled toward the back of the cave, nearly tripping over loose stones in the dim firelight. The blankets were folded and dry.
He grabbed two, as well as a large waterskin and dried meat lying next to them, and hurried back.
“Hans… why…,” Henry mumbled.
Hans didn’t answer right away, he pulled the blankets over Henry’s shoulders, tucking them close, then settled beside him, tossing few more pieces of wood into the fire.
“Why?” Hans repeated.
Henry made a faint sound and his fingers curled weakly into the linen now wrapped around him, gripping it as if it were the only solid thing left in the world.
“Yeah… why. Why are you helping me…”
Hans turned more to face him.
“Do you really need me to slap some sense into you? Cause the flail clearly didn’t,” he said incredulously and a bit outraged. “Why am I helping you? Say the man who took a blow for me while I stood back to the enemy like a scarecrow in a field? Christ, Hal!“
Henry’s hand twitched weakly, brushing Hans’s arm. Hans caught the hand gently.
“I just… wanted…,” Henry breathed in wetly, his chest shaking, “I wanted it… to feel… like it used to. Protecting you… One more time.”
Hans blinked several times before glancing out towards the cave entrance to hide his face. There was nothing but stone, wet leaves and pieces of grey sky.
“You didn’t have to leave me back then, you know,” he muttered. “No one made you. I didn’t want you to.”
“You made me,” Henry opposed, slowly closing his eyes. “Do you… do you still think you made the right choice?”
“I didn’t have a choice!” Hans snapped, turning once again back to Henry. “I didn’t!”
“Didn’t you, though?”
“I did not,” Hans insisted firmly, not letting go of Henry’s hand, but clutching it harder. “You know damn well how it was. I just… I couldn’t… decide differently. I had just sent that complaint against Hanush to court. I needed the king to back up my claim to Rattay, to order him to step aside.” Hans spread his arms quickly in a frustrated gesture. “So, forgive me, but when during such times the king issues an order to arrest and hand over all the rebelling preachers making arguments against the church – I couldn’t have disobeyed him. I’d cost me everything.”
“It cost Godwin everything,” Henry mumbled, glancing away.
“Yes, you already made that perfectly clear when you screamed at me back then,” Hans snapped. “And you saved Godwin anyway before running off to the night, so what. It wouldn’t be just me losing Rattay, Hal, it would me my whole family, my son – how could I ever explain that to him? It’s his birthright!”
Henry let out a thin, shaky breath. “So how do you explain that to him now…?” His voice was barely more than a whisper. “That he has a father who put the safety of his coin and station before a friend’s life?”
Hans’s eyes narrowed in warning. “Henry—”
“It’s alright,” Henry murmured, eyelids drooping. “I’m not… accusing you. Just… asking.” He winced, eyes squeezing shut. “Don’t… don’t get angry. I’m… tired.”
“You think it was easy?” Hans’s voice cracked, as if he were choking on all the words he’d held back for years. “You think I didn’t lie awake wondering what people think of me? What you think of me?”
“I think…,” Henry’s lips twitched in something like a smile, “you made your choice. That’s all.”
“And you think I didn’t pay for it?” Hans leaned closer, unable to stop himself. “I sold my conscience to keep the word I knew from crushing down… just for it to disappear all the same.“
Henry’s fingers curled weakly into his. “Hans…”
Hans swallowed hard, the fight draining out of him. He brushed a thumb over Henry’s knuckles, slow and steady.
“You weren’t wrong,” he said quietly. “About any of it. If you feel any justification hearing it from me.”
For a moment he just sat there, staring at their joined hands as if they belonged to someone else. The fire crackled softly. Outside, the wind sighed through wet leaves.
Then Hans exhaled.
“You know,” he murmured, “I told myself I did the right thing. I convinced myself. And everyone around me. But… I’d lie awake thinking about that courtyard. About you screaming at me. About that look you gave me. Like I was some shit you found on the bottom of your shoe. And when you left… you took a piece of myself with you.”
Hans let the words hang silently in the air. It took some time before Henry answered, and a short spasm of discomfort ran through his face as he did.
“I… I don’t think you were lacking…,” he breathed out heavily, holding Hans’s hand tighter. “Because maybe… maybe I took a piece of you, but… I’m certain I left a piece of me in Rattay instead.”
“I know…” Hans looked away, jaw tightening, then back at him. “I saw it everywhere. Your finger, pointing at me.”
“Not what I meant.”
“Well, I mean it,” Hans shrugged. Then he shook his head, a short, frustrated movement. “You wouldn’t be alone, you know?” he added quietly. “Half the town felt the same way you did. More than half, if I’m honest.”
Henry blinked, trying to focus, fighting a battle to stay awake.
“My own subjects…,” Hans went on, voice low, almost bitter, “people I’d known since I was a boy… suddenly whispering about the new preachings. About justice. About cleansing the Church. About standing with the Hussites.” He huffed a humorless breath. “And about me, selling out to the king like a whore.”
Henry’s eyes opened a sliver, unfocused but pained. “Hans…”
“No, let me say it,” Hans pressed his hand harder. “They said it in the taverns. In the square. Behind my back, in front of my face, didn’t matter. Their new, young, irresponsible, two-faced lord, trying to hold both sides together with my bare hands.” He rubbed his thumb over Henry’s knuckles, slow and absent, as if grounding himself. “God knows what we’re even supposed to protect our people from. The Hussites? Sigismund? The Pope? It’s like playing farkle with all the dice pitch-black. How could I choose? No one cared what I thought. I’m not sure I cared either. It was just… what had to be done. An impossible choice.”
Henry let out a slow, aching breath. “But you chose,” he whispered. “You came here. On their side. In this battle.”
“I told Sternberg it was a one-time help,” Hans said quietly. “And I intended for it to stay that way. My son is way too young to make any political decisions. And Jitka as his guardian wouldn’t be asked to. So… years pass before it's his turn to choose. Hopefully, things get clearer by then.”
The last sentence made Henry crack his eyes back open with worry.
“What are you saying?”
Hans shook his head with a soft, crooked smile. “Don’t worry, nothing that would get me behind a cemetery wall. But… people oftentimes get lost in battles such as this. And after a time… if not found…”
Henry blinked. “You planned… to run away? Fake your own death?”
“Yes, I did,” Hans sighed. “I brought provisions for a few days into this cave once it was clear where we’re stationed. I wanted to get my horse, get here quick, lay low for a time and then… start my life as a travelling knight. See the world. Who knows. And it worked…,” he glanced down at Henry almost accusingly, “until a certain turnip-digging dollop-head had to jump right in front of a flail.“
Henry let out a slow breath, his eyes drifting half-shut again. Something wet rattled inside of his chest.
“Maybe you’ll… still get to go,” he murmured. “On that journey of yours. Like you planned.” His fingers tightened weakly around Hans’s. “But I’m… I’m grateful I got to see you again. Truly.”
Hans’s head snapped toward him so fast the blankets rustled.
“Henry, don’t.”
Henry struggled to meet his eyes. “I mean it. If this is… if this is the last time—”
“Oh for God’s sake,” Hans cut in, voice cracking with something far too raw to be anger. “If you talk about dying, I swear I’ll go out there and switch you up for that horse.”
Henry let out a faint, breathless laugh — the kind that hurt to make. “You’d… trade me for a horse?”
“Yes,” Hans snapped, leaning closer, eyes bright with fear he refused to name. “Gladly. Happily. Immediately. Because at least the horse wouldn’t lie there talking nonsense about dying.”
Henry’s smile softened. “Horses don’t talk at all.”
“Exactly,” Hans muttered. “A blessed improvement. And here I thought I missed you.”
Henry’s breath hitched, a tremor running through him, but he didn’t look away. “Hans…”
“Look, Hal,” Hans squeezed his hand with the desperate steadiness of a man holding someone back from a cliff’s edge. “I have no horse, no armour, provisions for one that are to last for two… It’s going splendidly, the plan. Never a more flawless plan was made. And that’s counting Trosky. So as you can see… I reckon there’s only one person I need for that kind of disaster. Unless…,” he hesitated, “unless – I mean, I would understand – if you’d just want me to get you somewhere… to your new… people.”
“Hans…,” Henry let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t leave to find someone else.”
Hans’s eyes flicked back to him, sharp and uncertain.
Henry swallowed, wincing.
“And even if so… I haven’t found anyone. There’s always been you. This whole time. Only… you.”
Hans looked down at their joined hands.
“Yes…,” he whispered. “The whole time… only you.”