Chapter Text
Autumn, 1404
"Hanush once told me, about what happened the day I was born."
Hans looks out over the courtyard, but sees none of the details. Not the emblems of the flags, rippling into the breeze. Not the people, walking to and fro, preoccupied on their task. Not the horses in the stables, nor the dogs trailing after their masters. Not even the shadows that drift across the ground, caught on the afternoon sun.
Nothing he witnesses can compete with the cacophony of his thoughts. He is taken with images of what he never witnessed. Told from one person to another and then to another. A story so far removed that it is almost an imagination.
"My uncle was not around these parts at that time of course. God only knows where he was. But he heard about it from my father before he died."
Henry stands quietly nearby. Not out of reach, but not touching either. At a whim, Hans could reach to grasp him, graze over him, even draw him close for a kiss.
But he does not. Instead, he leans against the banister, his hands wringing together.
"As he told the story, my mother started the pains late into the evening. Naturally, the maids informed my father. He told them to come back once the deed was done. And he retired for the night."
Two men are shouting back and forth across the courtyard. Practical comments, not in anger. A loud but short exchange, then the courtyard returns to its usual mumbling.
"The next morning, I had still not made an appearance. So my father went out on the hunt. He was gone all morning. Hours and hours. Vanished into the forest. Alone, but for his horse and his dogs."
Hans pauses, goes to straighten. But his body is too coiled to permit it, a knot in his stomach that cannot unravel. He returns to how he was.
"He arrives back at the castle in time for the noon bells. With a stag across the haunches of his horse." He gestures as he speaks, illustrates the scene with a wave of his fingers. Reverent. "A fine creature, with a finer pelt, so my father claimed. The most immaculate pelt he had ever seen."
Henry shifts on the spot; the boards beneath his feet creak. Loudly. He winces and stills, does not want to interrupt with something so trivial as this. Hans only smiles. His love is intrinsically capable of making a fuss, even when he does not wish to. Over the small things, the big things, all that fell in between.
"Apparently, my father was so proud of felling that stag. Even years later, he could remember the weight, the precise shade of brown of its fur, like mud after the first spring rain. The best prey of his life."
Hans can’t see the expression, but he knows how Henry’s face changes. How it will tighten with that worry he carries so frequently. The way his lips move when he wants to speak but is unsure of how it would help. The crux of his brows, like a tilted cross. Hans could draw that expression, the one of concern. He sees it often. Sometimes deserved, more likely not.
Today it is very much deserved.
"The maids arrive again, this time to tell him that I had been born. He had a son, an heir!"
Hans shrugs, but it does not achieve much.
"So my father comes upstairs to see us both, my mother and I."
He picks at a nail. Once, twice.
"He checks that I had all my fingers and all my toes. Checks that I had a prick between my legs."
Three times he picks.
"Then he goes back out on the hunt!"
Hans forces his hands apart. Tenses them, holds the weight of the world for the briefest moment. Only for them to drift together again, fidgeting.
"Are you telling me that you want to go out on a hunt?" Henry asks.
Hans laughs, gentle.
"Quite the opposite, Hal. I can’t imagine anything of the sort right now."
Henry too leans closer. Closer than would be expected of a companion or a friend. Closer than anyone would dare with a lord. Anyone but a lover. Close enough that Hans enters into his pull, the undercurrent of his presence, that force beneath the surface of their beings. Again, so close to touching. If only he would let it happen.
However they know better than to do such a thing. Here, in the open. Here, as they wait. Here, where Hans might snap like a twig should Henry handle him too roughly.
"I imagine that it was his way of taking his mind off the situation," Henry states. Matter of fact, so certain. As though he had been there to witness it himself. Not a recount of a recount.
There is the potential for that to be true. Hans wants to believe it. But he struggles. Founders.
"Perhaps…"
"Everything on that day would have been outside of his control," Henry continues. He sways close enough for their clothing to catch. Just a second of touch. Not even on his skin, but Hans feels the motion as though he has been held. As though he has been comforted. "That must be difficult for a lord to tolerate."
Hans chuckles despite himself, brief but genuine. Enough levity to break the held breath from his lungs. Yes, wasn’t that the issue? Henry, who knew what a lord should and should not be. Hans, who was still figuring it out.
Summoning his courage, Hans stands straight. His stomach turns as predicted. Loops and flutters in his gut.
Henry’s hand drifts closer. Hands as rough as they day they met, that work tirelessly. At all the duties required of him, of all the care he must carry, that burdensome load. Hands that fit perfectly against his body, that hold all he wants in their palms. How he would love to return to their embrace now, let the rest of this awful anxiety disperse. Seeds on the wind.
Hans intends to reply, but they are interrupted by the door opening behind them and the maid stood there. Fortunate that how close they stand could be forgiven as a miscalculation, or a stumble. An action taken out of context, seen only partway through. Henry withdraws as much, resumes his place back where the boards creak. Formal, and stern.
"My lord," the maid says hurriedly, dipping her head towards the two. There is sweat on her brow.
For a moment, Hans’ heart lurches in his chest. As horrible a feeling as though the very castle walls themselves are crashing down.
But then there is relief in her voice as she speaks again.
"It is time."
How does he reply? What would be appropriate to say? Not talk of deer carcasses, that much is obvious. But every other possible sentence escapes him.
"I will be there in a moment," he states with difficulty, after a pause that is one beat too long. He prays that it does not convey. Or that, if it must, that it must appear to derive from fatigue. Not fear. God, let it not be from fear.
The maid dips again into a quick bow, then shuts the door. Again they are alone.
Hans turns to Henry, panicked. Now the words arrive too quickly, spill from him unbound.
"Henry, I can’t do this…"
In a moment, Henry is back at his side. Recklessly breaking through that boundary they have been delicately toeing towards, smashing through all that is expected and proper. If Hans had the wherewithal, he would worry. Afraid of being witnessed, of being known.
But he needs it. He feels that all will turn backwards and upside down without it. Glad to feel that support, Henry’s palms at his forearms. Not enough, not all he requires. This brief awkward touch is too little. Too insubstantial to carry Hans through what awaits him next. Not when he needs Henry with him, equal to him. Hand in hand, hand on cheek.
"I have never seen the Lord of Pirkstein retreat from a single battle," Henry says firmly. "Not even with an arrow in his arse. Not half starved, with armies breaking down the gates."
He squeezes where they touch. But Hans struggles to believe his words. He might believe them if they were spoken as he preferred: breathed into his skin, uttered into his hair by close lips, spoken in the safety and secrecy of their chambers.
But here the words flitter away, despite how he longs for them. A distant bird sailing away over the walls. Never to be seen again.
He feels his features twist, which only compels Henry further.
"All that I have seen you do, all you have endured? This is nothing, Hans. You are the bravest man I know."
There is so much hidden between the lines. The bravery that Henry and only Henry has seen. All the ways Hans has expressed it, in love and despair, hidden in shadows and behind locked doors. Bravery of who he was beneath the surface, exposed for his greedy eyes. Bravery behind the armour, the commands, the noble garb. Henry’s love as his shield.
Hans can’t think to respond. Knows that there is but one truth to those words.
That all he has endured, he only had the strength to do so because Henry was at his side.
But he cannot be at his side now. Not this time.
Henry appears as though he almost leans in closer. For a kiss perhaps. Or a whisper. God, just a breath, the breath of life from his lips, all he could ever need...
Then he resists. Replaces that gentle touch with a firmer prompt, a push almost. That will have to be enough to spark his lord into action.
"I’d best go before they send for me again," Hans states, apprehensive.
Henry nods in agreement. A final squeeze at his arms.
"I will find you later. Don’t go far," Hans continues snappily, falling into old habits.
"I won’t. I will be right here when you need me." A familiar glint in his eyes. Also falling into old habits. "Just… try not to drop it."
A wheeze of a laugh.
"Kiss my arse, Hal…"
When they separate, it is like a tear. Flesh, fabric or the immaculate hide of a fine stag as it is felled from a masterful arrow.
Hans turns before he can change his mind, disappears to follow where the maid went. To where he has no control over what will happen next.