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Long after the last bell, the keep is usually quiet, save for the scrape of a guard’s boots on stone. Tonight it is not. Laughter lingers below the windows. Voices drift through the corridors, carrying in from the courtyard.
Tomorrow, a wedding.
Henry exhales through his nose and lets his hands hang between his knees. He lowers his head.
Hans’ wedding.
“Come see me tonight,” Hans said earlier, catching Henry in the courtyard between one obligation and the next. “Before…”
Before I am to be wed, he did not say. Henry read it plainly enough in his eyes.
“Just come, will you?”
Henry nodded and ducked away the moment Hans’ attention shifted.
Three weeks since their return to Rattay. Three weeks of duty and furtive glances, of smiles traded across crowded chambers and kisses stolen in shadowed alcoves.
The first passed easily enough, spent mostly in the woods under the pretext of a hunting trip.
The second did not. Hans was wanted everywhere then—fittings, consultations, discussions.
“Why does Hanush demand my presence?” he muttered one night. “One would think I were the bride, for all the say they allow me in my own wedding.”
The third week brought the bride and her kin, and Henry volunteered for every evening patrol rather than watch Hans smile at the woman who would be his wife.
Hans had sighed longingly over many a fair face in the past. Given time, perhaps he would come to love Jitka as well.
Henry should not be an obstacle in Hans’ path to a contented life. He would not be.
Man and woman wedded.
Not man and man.
His hands curl.
He could never be what Hans required—not of life, nor of society.
It is better this way. Better to step back now than let it deepen into something that cannot be undone.
Hans would disapprove. He already does, though he may not yet know why. He is too easily given to grand ideas, to futures imagined without cost. Henry loves that. But one of them must look at what stands before them.
As Hans’ sworn shield and sword, is it not his duty to guard more than his life? To guard his future as well—wife, children, legitimacy—and to keep their secrets buried where they belong?
His hands ache. He loosens his fingers.
He sits alone in his quarters in the courtyard.
Half of him yearns to go, drawn toward Hans and the warmth of his arms on this last night before the wedding.
The other remains seated.
Going to him now would undo the distance he has kept these past weeks. But staying away…
His gaze drifts to his sword, propped against the wall.
Sometimes he still itches to have it by him—and on patrols he does. But it has been months since Suchdol. Weeks since their return to Rattay, where the most action he has seen was a tavern brawl.
He settled it without blood.
Now he wants to take the sword. For what?
To fight Jitka? Hans?
He scoffs at himself.
Coward.
Staying away tonight might spare him hurt in the days to come, but it is just as likely to leave him with regret. As Hans’ closest companion, he ought to stand with him when he needs it most.
Hans has never been the master of his own life.
He asked him to come—and when has Henry ever been capable of denying him anything?
~
Standing before Hans’ door, he wonders if he has taken too long. If Hans has drunk himself senseless and gone to bed without him.
Then—
“Come in,” Hans calls from within.
So he goes.
Hans stands by the window, a goblet of wine in hand, in a loose white shirt and dark hose. Without looking at Henry, he says, his tone affectedly light, “You almost had me thinking you wouldn’t come.”
“Sorry,” Henry murmurs.
Moonlight lies pale across Hans’ face, clearer than the low candles on the table. It reveals the tightness at his mouth, the pinch of his brows.
Henry looks away—and finds his gaze settling instead on the garments laid out for tomorrow.
A golden doublet. Coal-dark hose. His finest cloak, black linden branches stitched in patient thread along the hem.
And a wreath of green.
He tears his eyes away from that too and, inevitably, meets Hans’ across the room.
The silence stretches. Henry shifts his weight, still by the door—aware that Hans is watching his every movement.
“Well?” Hans demands at last, sweeping an arm wide. “Are you going to stand there until I give you an order, like a servant?”
Henry presses his lips together. Flexes his fingers to keep them from curling.
Then he crosses the room.
Hans blows out a breath—annoyed, impatient—and the moment Henry is close enough, Hans grips his arm and pulls him in. His nose is cold where it presses against Henry’s neck. He inhales deeply.
“What has happened?” he whispers. “You have been scarce these past days. I—”
He stops himself, and Henry aches.
Doing what is right should not feel like this.
“You have been busy,” Henry says quietly. His hand comes up of its own accord, cupping the back of Hans’ neck. He squeezes gently.
It is not enough. It might never be.
Hans scoffs. “Of course. As have you.”
He pulls back just far enough to look at Henry, mouth downturned.
“But that was not what I meant.”
“I know.”
Hans searches his face, and Henry lets him, careful to give nothing back. Hans’ shoulders sag. His weight leans forward again.
“If you—”
His fingers clutch at Henry’s shirt.
“If you regret anything… If you have changed your mind—”
“That’s not it,” Henry says at once. He cannot let Hans believe that, no matter what happens.
Hans makes a low sound and rests his forehead against Henry’s.
“Just… stay. Please.”
“I will.”
Hans waits until he catches Henry’s eyes. “Will you?”
“Aye,” Henry murmurs.
He should not be here. He stays anyway.
One more night.
Tomorrow, Hans will stand beside his bride.
The thought burns.
He pulls Hans closer, arms locking tight. He drops his head on Hans’ shoulder and breathes him in—leather, soap, and something that belongs nowhere but here.
Jealousy flares: he swallows it.
Jitka deserves a husband who looks only at her. The thought of Bianca—or Theresa—in her stead, and himself in Hans’… The guilt devours him from the inside out.
Hans deserves a life that will not ruin him—even if Henry must leave.
He presses his eyes shut.
They stand in silence for a while, until it is almost as though tomorrow does not loom ahead. But time, as ever, waits for no one, and at last, Hans is the one to sigh and draw away—but not part.
“Come to bed,” he says, patting Henry’s side. There is a small smile on his lips, even if his eyes do not quite echo it. “The hour is late.”
On most nights, clothes are tugged loose with impatience. Tonight they undress without touching, down to their braies, and slide beneath the blankets with not even a murmur between them.
Relief and regret twist together in Henry’s chest as Hans draws him close.
When Hans summoned him, Henry had expected something else—anger, perhaps, or need sharpened by tomorrow. Instead, Hans only holds him as they lie together in the simplest sense of the word. His hand settles at Henry’s ribs, warm and tender despite the weighted quiet.
Henry places his own hand over Hans’.
He lies awake long after Hans’ breathing evens out—first in pretence, later in sleep—feeling the steady rhythm of his heart against his back.
~
Morning comes bright and too soon.
Noticing the drawn look on Hans’ face, the faint redness about his eyes, Henry wonders if Hans woke as often as he did, staring into the dark, where nothing asked anything of him. At least no nightmares of fire followed Henry into sleep.
They dress much as they did the night before—or at least Henry does, while Hans stands before the wedding garments, arms hanging at his sides. His jaw works, but no words come.
Henry clasps his hands behind his back to stop himself from reaching out.
Servants arrive shortly after and set to their task at once. Henry remains by the wall, fingers digging into his palms, as the man before him is laced and buttoned into formality.
He ducks his head.
“I’ll see you at the chapel.”
He is already at the door when Hans’ voice reaches him, carefully flat.
“Will you?”
Henry pauses, hand on the latch. After a faint breath, he says, “I will.”
He hesitates at the threshold—longing to turn, to look—but he does not.
He leaves.
~
Henry descends to the courtyard without haste.
There, he sees a young lad struggling with heavy buckets of water and alters his course to help. With that settled, he falls into step with Janek toward the outer gate, which sees a few late arrivals. He lingers there a while from habit, then offers his assistance to Captain Bernard.
By the time he returns to the upper ward, the yard has filled with colour and familiar faces. The bride’s kin gather beneath the gallery. Two boys dart between skirts until a nurse seizes them by their collars.
A glance at the sun, at Hanush’s posture, tells him it is nearly time. He takes his place where he will be needed once the procession forms.
Quietly, Radzig appears at his side.
“How are you faring, lad?”
“Tired,” Henry admits, because Radzig has a knack for knowing when anyone lies. “Nightmares.”
His father’s hand settles briefly on his shoulder.
It occurs to him then that he never retrieved his sword.
The thought needles.
“If you will excuse me,” Henry says. “I will fetch my sword.”
“It appears Sir Hans is delayed,” Radzig replies mildly. “You have time.”
Henry looks toward the upper steps. Hanush is glancing that way too, speaking low with the lord of Kunštát.
Hans should know better than to test him today.
“Sir.”
A steward intercepts Henry as he turns away, breath slightly quickened. “Sir Hanush would have a word.”
Henry looks again toward the knot of nobles. Hanush is already watching him. At Henry’s approach, he says something low to Jitka’s father and steps away.
He leads Henry several paces off, far enough that the murmur of the yard swallows their words.
“Tell me you know where he has gone.”
“I saw him in his chambers this morning,” Henry says slowly. “Sir.”
“He is not there.” Hanush’s voice is clipped. “Where is he?”
Henry frowns. “He wouldn't have run.”
Hans might complain. He might curse the match. But he would not run.
Hanush scoffs. “Find him, then. Now.”
Henry dips into a quick bow and sets off. Behind him, Hanush mutters something about spoiled lordlings and delaying the procession.
He goes to Hans’ chambers first and finds them unchanged from earlier: nothing to hint at Hans’ mood. Mouth pursing, he stops a servant in the corridor. She tells him Hans left a while ago, though she does not know where he was headed.
A moment of peace before the wedding—that must be what Hans went to find. Something to dull his nerves, perhaps.
Henry looks inside several chambers, exasperated despite himself when Hans’ whereabouts remain unknown. Hanush will have both their hides when Hans finally deigns to appear, wine thick on his breath. It would be like him.
It is not a kind thought. He regrets having it, but it stays with him as he jogs to the ramparts and sees no glimpse of gold upon them. Must he leave the castle to search the tavern for his errant lord?
Where is he?
The twelfth bell begins to toll.
Hanush will be furious.
A flicker of doubt nudges him toward the stables. The sight of Caballus steadies him again.
Hans would not leave.
But he is no closer to finding him.
His eyes snag on a boy struggling with a bridle at the far end of the stables. He startles when Henry calls out to him.
“Sir?”
“Have you seen Sir Hans this morning?”
The boy hesitates.
“Aye.”
Henry arches his brow.
The boy shifts his weight, fingers tightening nervously around the strap.
“He came through earlier,” he says. “On foot.”
On any other day, Henry might have appreciated the servants’ instinct to protect their lord. Now, he crosses his arms, patience stretched thin. The bell continues its slow tolling.
“He was heading toward the inner ward,” the boy adds quietly. “Alone.”
That means little. Hans often wanders the castle when he needs to think, or is in a mood.
“Out with it,” Henry snaps when he senses the boy isn’t done.
The boy swallows.
“As though he didn’t wish to be seen, sir.”
Henry exhales through his nose.
“Right,” he mutters, already turning away. “Thank you.”
The bell has gone quiet when he strides forward, irritation mounting with every step. A pair of squires scatter from his path, their laughter dying when they recognise him.
The training yard is empty.
Why would he invite Hanush’s ire today of all days? It is one thing to snub Hanush, but today Hans risks insulting not only him, but a whole host of nobles besides.
If this is a last, desperate attempt to avoid the wedding…
If Hans is smart, he arrived after Henry left to search for him, and the procession has already begun without Henry.
Henry lengthens his stride.
Voices drift past him as servants hurry across the yard.
“—told you he’d bolt,” someone mutters.
“He hasn’t bolted,” another snaps. “The rite cannot begin without the groom.”
“Someone in pale plate nearly ran me down near the stables,” a third grumbles. “Thought he was with the bride’s folk.”
“Sir Henry!”
It takes him a moment to realise the call is meant for him. He turns.
A maid hurries toward him from below the gallery, skirts gathered in her hands, breath coming fast. She falters when she reaches him, eyes darting nervously toward the yard behind them.
“Sir,” she says, dipping her head.
“What is it?”
She wrings her hands.
“I… I thought it best not to speak earlier. Lord Capon asked not to be disturbed.” She winces. “But with the wedding—”
Henry frowns. “Where?”
“In the chapel, my lord.”
Henry stares at her for a heartbeat.
Of course.
Hans must have gone to pray—or hide—before the ceremony.
He nods brusquely. “Thank you.”
Then he turns and makes for the chapel.
Hiding in the one place no one would think to look—it makes a reluctant smile tug at Henry’s mouth before he schools his face again.
Perhaps Hans has already slipped away again, alerted to his delay by the bell.
Henry huffs and shakes his head.
The chapel doors are closed, but pushing them open requires little effort.
Inside, the chapel is plain. Light falls through painted glass and spills across the raised stone altar at the far end.
Upon which—
Henry falters in the doorway.
Hans lies upon the altar.
He is dressed as he should be for the ceremony: the golden doublet, the dark hose, the green wreath still resting in his hair. The collar sits askew, a seam at the throat pulled loose. One arm has slipped slightly across the stone, his hand hanging open near the edge.
Why would he—
Something catches the light.
Steel.
The sword stands buried in Hans’ chest.
Blood spreads outward from the wound, soaking the fabric before spilling across the altar and dripping over its edge to stain the floor below.
Hans does not move.
The chapel is quiet.
Henry takes a step forward, slow and uncertain. The step that follows is less stumbling, and the one after—
He reaches the altar, breathless, catching himself against the stone.
“Hans,” he whispers.
Hans’ other hand rests near his hip. His fingers are curled around nothing, flecked with red. Faint markings shadow the wrist. His face is angled toward the door Henry entered through, slight bruising at his jaw. Tear tracks down his cheeks have dried, but his lashes still cling together, and his eyes—
are open.
An odd sound leaves Henry, and before he knows it he has gripped the sword by the hilt. The familiarity of it strikes him just as he wrenches it free from Hans’ chest, and as though burned, he drops it at once.
It clatters against the floor, the sound ricocheting between the walls.
Blood wells from the wound. Henry presses his hand to it, feeling the warmth of the blood—of Hans beneath him.
“Hans,” he croaks, lifting his gaze to Hans’ face—
There is no frown of pain, no breath past his lips. His eyes remain open, unseeing.
Something wretched tears from Henry. Not a scream, not a plea, not a groan, and yet somehow all of them.
He cups Hans’ face, unable to draw full breaths, as though something has sucked all the air from the room. Hans is still warm. His blood is wet.
But Hans does not move.
Drops of water land on Hans’ face. It cannot rain inside—and yet it is.
Henry sinks, his knees striking the stone hard. His eyes burn, his chest aches, his hands—
Hans’ blood on his hands, warmth fading fast.
This is not—
No—
There is too much distance between them.
He stumbles to his feet, swaying. His boot scrapes as he lifts a knee onto the altar, hauling himself up after it. He slips in the blood, scrambling to catch himself with his hands without disturbing Hans.
Hans never liked being alone.
He reaches for him. Hans is heavy in his arms, and Henry grunts as he gently lifts him from the stone. He scoots closer, arranging Hans across his lap. One arm braces Hans’ back as he tilts his head toward his throat.
The wreath on his head sits crooked, the leaves crushed. Henry pauses to straighten it before pulling him close, feeling Hans’ hand fall against his back.
Hans’ hair tickles his nose. He inhales as deeply as he can, the scent of the wreath and Hans’ favourite soap pushing back the reek of iron.
His tears burn hotter than blood.
The chapel is silent, save for Henry’s own shuddered breaths. Just the two of them. Henry has fallen asleep many times in echoes like this, with Hans sleeping, safe and sound, in his arms.
He wipes Hans’ cheek, but his sight blurs and his hand leaves new streaks of blood in its wake, so he moves to his hair instead. Runs his fingers through it, the way Hans likes.
He clings to Hans, to the warmth still lingering beneath the cloth. Everywhere Hans is not touching him feels cold.
His tears slow. The ache does not.
A shrill scream tears through the quiet.
Henry does not move.
He does not look, even as the scream is followed by boots striking the stone.
Then—a lull of absolute silence.
He does not lift his gaze.
A roar of voices follows; weeping and screaming and shouting.
“Seize him!”
Hands on him. He tenses, but others are already reaching for Hans. Henry lets them take him; lets himself be pulled from the altar.
“Release him.”
Henry looks up only then, as the hands fall away from him.
Radzig stands in front of him, eyes hard and unreadable. Nearby, Hanush barks orders.
“Clear the chapel! And—for God’s sake, someone take the bride elsewhere.”
His expression shifts as his gaze falls on Hans.
Henry does not linger on him, his focus drawn instead to the sword lying on the floor.
One of the guards behind him makes an aborted motion when Henry moves, but does not stop him from picking it up.
It has never felt wrong in his hands, even when it wasn’t his to claim.
Things are different now. Still, it must finish what began with him.
Radzig moves into his path before he can take three steps, Godwin flanking him. Whatever Radzig sees in Henry’s face makes him pause for half a heartbeat.
“Henry,” he says.
“Move.”
“Lad,” Godwin tries.
Henry stares past them at the open doors—watches as the last people filter out before a guard closes them.
It does not matter.
Godwin eases the sword from his grip.
Radzig puts a hand on his shoulder and guides him away from the altar—to a bench. Henry sits.
Radzig’s hand remains.
Around them the chapel has not grown quiet again, but hushed. Hanush strides toward them.
His face is red with fury.
“You,” he demands, stopping in front of Henry. “Speak, you wretched lout.”
Henry glances at him, then looks down at his hands, stained red by Hans’ blood.
Radzig rises when Hanush inhales sharply, edging himself between them.
“Look at him, Hanush.”
Hanush’s jaw works, hands clenched. He looks between Henry and Radzig, then grunts.
“God’s bones,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Of course your boy didn’t—”
His voice catches. He clears his throat, reining himself in fast.
“But someone did.”
“Aye,” says Godwin.
He is crouched off to the side, behind the altar. He holds a goblet to his nose, sniffing. The floor at his feet is streaked red, the spilled wine dark as Hans’ blood upon the altar.
Godwin tries to catch Henry’s eyes, but Henry has already turned away to look once more at the doors.
Radzig’s hand finds his shoulder again: a solid weight, meant to steady him.
For a moment, no one speaks. Then—
“Get him out of here.”
Radzig nods.
Two guards approach.
Henry rises when Radzig guides him.
He does not resist.
He does not look back.
~
He is taken to a chamber in the upper castle. Radzig says a few quiet words—assurance—before the door closes between them and the lock turns.
Someone remains outside—he hears the shift of boots in the corridor.
Radzig’s voice murmurs something low, followed by Godwin’s softer reply.
Henry rests his forearms on the window ledge and looks out across the courtyard, to the road beyond it.
It does not matter.
They cannot keep him here forever.